The Writer's Library.

Talking's hard so I write it down. My chest hurts as if it's collapsing in, Or maybe exploding out. Have you left yet dear, Or are you on your way? Or do I just have the wrong day? I've been off all week. My depression's bleak. How will I feel once it's all over. Will it be over? Will it ever be done? How will I know when the war's been won? I miss the days when it was simply complicated. I hate how now I had to hurt people, But mostly myself. Am I doing what makes me happy? I don't know. The same answer you give when I ask you if you love me. That really hurt, I think you know. But at least I know it wasn't a lie. But "I don't know" can turn into "no". Time passes on, Bringing me closer to a final day, I hope. Forgive me if I leave it all behind. Maybe you won't be hurt, But you said you'd at least remember me. Everyone tells me that I've helped them somehow. Somehow I've given the

The affliction of a rose is of its hue, A deep disgusting red like blood without breath. Oh how it makes a crimson wreck of an amorous nose, A rose. This its clandestine depth: A rose is a rose is a rose And both the adder beneath it. How now is the charming connotation so bequeathed it? Sickness falls once bit upon, It matters not the circumstance thereon. Imbibes of blood, That allergy does, And so leeches this lively dye. Sneeze away this viral pollen, Bleed no more and so it dies. But dogma decrees that so shall it be A pis aller to let decay this eros. Yet, Is there balm in Gilead? As the timelessly exalted syntagma goes? Do these poets sing certitude or chicanery, That there are blessings to be had? So they repeat duet and say, That roses can be sated, That blood set free might return to be ours forever. Did they glimpse the incompatibility of fact and fancy? That rooted roses can be boundless wellsprings, Never to overflow with blooming red recip

None can say they walked with her. Ashes and dust stirring. Goes on, this queen. Images of sparks from whence she stirs, Never to be woken? Even as the walker I question this. Into the long unknown I stroll. So the bridge she builds so easily, Intertwined as laurels. Before the gods, Yesterday becoming tomorrow. Lasts the night as Long? Am I to be she, awoken?

Touching this paper again, reminds me of all the things I’ve done. When I go to bed at night, I still feel...empty. Anger, passion, emotions, all are fleeting. The only thing I’m left with is this quiet hollowness. An indifference that can’t seem to sit straight. It sits slumped, on its seat, but not touching his desk. His head is hung, staring off somewhere past his feet. Sometimes I wonder if it really matters if I close my eyes when I lay to rest. Open or closed, I don’t seem to get real sleep anyway. I can’t even remember my dreams anymore; my dreams make it worth going to bed. As I lay here I can feel the cuts on my feet. I often go out by my favorite tree, but I don’t bother with shoes. My lemon tree has thorns. I don’t mind the cuts on my feet, I hardly feel pain anymore. It’s the beginning of spring, and despite this, I don’t feel the joy and hope that follows this season.  The only hope I’ve felt caught in my throat when I saw all the butterflies and dragonflies o

I looked up at the sky this morning. I drive out just as the sun comes up, lighting up the buttery bottoms of clouds.  I was awed.  Awe is such a rare feeling, one that should be held onto and treasured. Awe and wonder shed years off the soul, my youthful sparkling eyes look up to the sky, breathless.  When I saw you for the first time,  you didn’t smile.  I could only be disappointed.  I was in awe as I got to see you lift your lips and laugh for the first time.  My awe and wonder as it shed years off of your soul, our youthful sparkling eyes look at each other, even to our last elderly breath. 

I go to sleep at night,  I still don’t know how to face myself, This mess of a body, Hoping I won’t live to see the morning.  I go to sleep at night, I take all the pills I want, I drink until the bottle slips my hand, Hoping I won’t live to see the morning. I go to sleep at night, With chest pains, A migraine, And a broken heart, Hoping I won’t live to see the morning.