denial and confessionI’m coming to terms with existenceMore Like This
I’m not winning any races
against speculation,not winning
for sociality - I’m winning them because
I look much younger than I am.
I have rung recognition’s doorbell
several times now,but each time
simplicity escapes me and I run and hide
in the flowerbed.
sometimes,crouching among the begonias
I write a poem,
like this one,
and I tell myself it can make up
for what I refuse to say
so in a way,what you are reading now
is both a denial and a confession.
you are the unseen priest,seeing me
in the light of what I choose
and no matter how hard I try,
I only ever confide
as much as keeps me
ingot-eyeswe are nowhere near the sea,More Like This
you and me,
nowhere close to such freedom.
rise from solid ground
as we stir from sleep,
but next moment they are claimed
once more by the earth.
tears wriggle through closed eyelids,
trickle down to rejoin
the leaping waves; or else are brushed away
in denial of longing.
for you, for hope.i've been diagnosed with major depressive disorder, in fact, i've been diagnosed with a lot of things.More Like This
before, it was manic depression with bipolar tendencies or dysthymia; before that, it was chronic depression; before that, it was an anxiety disorder and before all of that, i was just a troubled child.
i'm writing this, not to ask for empathy or sympathy, but to simply provide hope in others: hope in you. i'm a survivor of the wildest war: my own, a battle between mind, body and soul. i've had my entire view of reality get turned upside down and shoved down my throat. i've had all of my dreams shattered against my own bones and all my hope torn apart at the hands of the ones i loved the most
but i'm still here, i'm alive and breathing and so are you.
here, i hand to you, all my deepest secrets. i hand to the world, my painful history that i'll finally let go. i won't disguise them in pretty poems or scribble them into hidden notebooks, but print them here, in col