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Literature Text
There were days counted by the number of moons that waxed and waned in her mouth, days carved out of the fluted chest of some beached whale, bones whistling in the winter wind. There were days punctuated by how many suicide notes were swallowed down with a shot of whiskey, days gathered together from the charcoal of a thousand wasted yesterdays, I built all these bridges and became a wickerman fit for burning.
I have stared giants in the eye, have sunk through bleached reefs where sharks bleed, have split my sides open to let out some of the sadness welling in my chest. I count days with her mouth as the sundial, I rotate like the shadows of great pines, I am sick of writing about depression. I want to write about her instead.
Her, with teeth plucked from the jaws of fierce bears, eyes that have stared at the sun for too long, fingers worn down to the bone from feeling too much, fighting too much, healing too little. Her, that is healing now, re-stitching her seams and rediscovering the pockets of herself unscarred, untouched by tragedy, places she forgot about, places she never knew. Her, stood looking into the mirror with saucer eyes and not shrinking from the reflection there, reburying her bones in soft layers of gossamer skin. Her, not needing anyone else to love when she loves herself so deeply, when she loves herself so completely, when she, when she, when she -
I have marked my calendar with fragments of a map, I am trying to find my way to her but the seas are misty and the seas are cold. It is winter and I am alone. It is winter and I am not lonely. I have found worlds inside myself, but there are crooked mountain frowns and indigo ribbon rivers to cross before my rattling feet reach her. I am spending the nights staring at the sun, I am battling fierce bears who roar with tragic hues. But when I reach her, buried deep in true north, I will no longer need to count the days spent shackled to the bed miserable, tied to the chair aching and forlorn and self-loathing, but will count the infinities spent looking in the mirror with saucer eyes and not shrinking from the reflection there.
My fingers are bones, it is time to heal now.
I have stared giants in the eye, have sunk through bleached reefs where sharks bleed, have split my sides open to let out some of the sadness welling in my chest. I count days with her mouth as the sundial, I rotate like the shadows of great pines, I am sick of writing about depression. I want to write about her instead.
Her, with teeth plucked from the jaws of fierce bears, eyes that have stared at the sun for too long, fingers worn down to the bone from feeling too much, fighting too much, healing too little. Her, that is healing now, re-stitching her seams and rediscovering the pockets of herself unscarred, untouched by tragedy, places she forgot about, places she never knew. Her, stood looking into the mirror with saucer eyes and not shrinking from the reflection there, reburying her bones in soft layers of gossamer skin. Her, not needing anyone else to love when she loves herself so deeply, when she loves herself so completely, when she, when she, when she -
I have marked my calendar with fragments of a map, I am trying to find my way to her but the seas are misty and the seas are cold. It is winter and I am alone. It is winter and I am not lonely. I have found worlds inside myself, but there are crooked mountain frowns and indigo ribbon rivers to cross before my rattling feet reach her. I am spending the nights staring at the sun, I am battling fierce bears who roar with tragic hues. But when I reach her, buried deep in true north, I will no longer need to count the days spent shackled to the bed miserable, tied to the chair aching and forlorn and self-loathing, but will count the infinities spent looking in the mirror with saucer eyes and not shrinking from the reflection there.
My fingers are bones, it is time to heal now.
Literature
iii.
young wolf,
no matter how much you howl,
the moon will not shine for you until
she wants to.
Literature
seasons change and so do we
there's a glass jar in the window,
it catches light
like falling leaves and leaves the eaves
tinted dawn-like -
autumn comes in tidal waves
and leaves us barren, breathless;
the summer birds
have come and gone with the rising of the
sun; oh, son, take a moment
to break in the beauty
of winter's slow death -
hear, hear, the world is slowing,
no more sowing happiness
amongst the graves of living leaves;
leave it be, bury yourself
in frozen ground and
sleep beneath the trees -
you'll thaw with the spring
as sprigs of snow drops slowly slumber;
somber will you wake with sunlight
twisting 'neath the earth;
scoop up fallen snowbirds
and lift
Literature
magnoelectrum
begging my fingertips to shudder proud
and toes to dig in. don't you dare relent.
i have been asking to be tested
and your half-starts
and absent effort
are not enough
this time.
darling, my spine is bowed,
aimed, and eager. let fly this
cedar with haste holy. extol
the bony curve with sharp, perfect
curve of goals reaped. your
hesitant altitude will meet
my hyperanimate speed
and follow,
or at worst, shatter.
i am a spectrum, awaited magnetically--
resonating scents of fresh steel
and you ask me to stay a phoenix,
quivering with the radiance
of precursor suns.
you assign me a corner of the universe to set on fire
and i weave tales of mis
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29/11/15
don't worry - I have recovered from depression for nearly two years now. this isn't really about depression anyway, more about the person i used to be.
it's basically a love note to the person i want to be - a person who is in the process of healing, and forgiving, and loving themself. i am getting towards my goal, i just need to keep my compass true.
The Under-Loved, Vol. 18
2/12/15 DLR Daily Lit Recognition for December 2nd, 2015
don't worry - I have recovered from depression for nearly two years now. this isn't really about depression anyway, more about the person i used to be.
it's basically a love note to the person i want to be - a person who is in the process of healing, and forgiving, and loving themself. i am getting towards my goal, i just need to keep my compass true.
The Under-Loved, Vol. 18
2/12/15 DLR Daily Lit Recognition for December 2nd, 2015
© 2015 - 2024 comatose-comet
Comments28
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You've captured a universe full of of truth, beauty, and courage in a few exquisitely written paragraphs.
You are easily as gifted as any famous poet. I believe you surpass many of them.
I am so glad that you are whole again, my friend. Thank you for sharing your journey with us.
You are easily as gifted as any famous poet. I believe you surpass many of them.
I am so glad that you are whole again, my friend. Thank you for sharing your journey with us.