depression in verse
I've got track marks on this line of time, copper drops
of shedding mine, this lack of light let blackness
shine, exacting the fear that's wracked my mind-
with what plight am I now aligned?
These scars are those that blind and bind how
others find me in this winding blight of drinking
wine by the bottle in the calm of night, despite
the shards of shattered spite that cut these palms
which hold so tight-ly to the emptiness that slips
so slightly toward the white that remains so lightly
and creates something so unsightly until it can
no longer rightly remain; I am contained in a tomb
of slate concrete, restrained by walls of self-defeat,
shamed by a sense of beaten disdain, my depth
of pain dissected plain and rendered unable to retreat
or regain a sustainable grasp or reference frame on
how to explain the persistence of rain. I cannot
seem to maintain the feat of living day to day
under a feigned projection of having attained
what the elite expected--this is not my predilection
but the product of neglect that others have elected
instead of selecting affection and care that
would have provided effective protection.
This state I'm in of defective reflection has arisen
under profound deception, to which I've been so
wrongly subjected and the blame has been so strongly
deflected on the object of this thriving infection,
whose direction is fatally free of objection.
This unfettered oppression has made me dejected
as though the shell I occupy can never be perfected
labelled as possessing incurable defects, preventing
the assessment of my life as worthy of selection
the progression of my resultant depression has followed
this impression that damaged goods deserve suppression.
I regress beneath repressive contempt, increasingly
detached and deemed unkempt; an attempt at
redemption would be preemptive--those that are broken
are simply exempt: this prison is my own.
I profess a tragedy the world should not condone
yet it has decided to indefinitely postpone its blessing.
My status as unknown is as static as living stone; I am
deprived of redress, perpetually breathless and alone.
[it is not a matter of how far I will roam but rather
on what ground I will fall and call home; from a nest
of old paper and boxes, I atone for the sins
that have made me this haggard old crone with
bones as brittle as ice cream cones, I'm prone
to breaking these last edifices of a worthwhile life
now strewn across the intersection of grief and strife;
I can do nothing but bemoan the indecency
that has befallen me and the paralytic agony
that is rife beneath skin, arthritic are my movements,
parasitic is my sin--I am sure I will die here,
much to my chagrin, in this din of endless waste
that originated from within; therein lies my salvation
as this existence is wearing thin, wherein I succomb
to the numbness of what has been in order to
begin anew and become something far from this
life gone askew.]
______________
This is just a rhyming attempt to get emotions out....
of shedding mine, this lack of light let blackness
shine, exacting the fear that's wracked my mind-
with what plight am I now aligned?
These scars are those that blind and bind how
others find me in this winding blight of drinking
wine by the bottle in the calm of night, despite
the shards of shattered spite that cut these palms
which hold so tight-ly to the emptiness that slips
so slightly toward the white that remains so lightly
and creates something so unsightly until it can
no longer rightly remain; I am contained in a tomb
of slate concrete, restrained by walls of self-defeat,
shamed by a sense of beaten disdain, my depth
of pain dissected plain and rendered unable to retreat
or regain a sustainable grasp or reference frame on
how to explain the persistence of rain. I cannot
seem to maintain the feat of living day to day
under a feigned projection of having attained
what the elite expected--this is not my predilection
but the product of neglect that others have elected
instead of selecting affection and care that
would have provided effective protection.
This state I'm in of defective reflection has arisen
under profound deception, to which I've been so
wrongly subjected and the blame has been so strongly
deflected on the object of this thriving infection,
whose direction is fatally free of objection.
This unfettered oppression has made me dejected
as though the shell I occupy can never be perfected
labelled as possessing incurable defects, preventing
the assessment of my life as worthy of selection
the progression of my resultant depression has followed
this impression that damaged goods deserve suppression.
I regress beneath repressive contempt, increasingly
detached and deemed unkempt; an attempt at
redemption would be preemptive--those that are broken
are simply exempt: this prison is my own.
I profess a tragedy the world should not condone
yet it has decided to indefinitely postpone its blessing.
My status as unknown is as static as living stone; I am
deprived of redress, perpetually breathless and alone.
[it is not a matter of how far I will roam but rather
on what ground I will fall and call home; from a nest
of old paper and boxes, I atone for the sins
that have made me this haggard old crone with
bones as brittle as ice cream cones, I'm prone
to breaking these last edifices of a worthwhile life
now strewn across the intersection of grief and strife;
I can do nothing but bemoan the indecency
that has befallen me and the paralytic agony
that is rife beneath skin, arthritic are my movements,
parasitic is my sin--I am sure I will die here,
much to my chagrin, in this din of endless waste
that originated from within; therein lies my salvation
as this existence is wearing thin, wherein I succomb
to the numbness of what has been in order to
begin anew and become something far from this
life gone askew.]
______________
This is just a rhyming attempt to get emotions out....