Sometimes
It feels like life is just...existence
Sometimes it feels like all we are is these ripples
That cannot help but curse themselves
Sometimes it feels like all we are is these dead shells
Washed out and washed up with no sense of smell to tell
That that seawater that washed us up is coming back for us
Sometimes it feels like all we are is these ripples
Like it's our right to feel crippled
To feel...alien to every force that tries to work with us
To every thought that tries to nurture us
To every voice that whispers messages of love into these deaf ears
We're left light-years away from here
Too far away to catch our own tears
And these battle-cries of fear have been etched in stone for years
And every pitiful excuse I make to feel sorry for myself lays a new brick in the wall that stands cold and firm between me and everything I hold dear
I'm too scared to say what's really going on
I'm afraid of the follow-up questions
Every day is a war between the desperate, silent prayer within me to change my reality
And the desperate silent prayer for it to stay the same
I don't know how long I can play this game
And I don't know if I can face what the fuck happens when it stops
I don't understand the words I'm using to describe the way I feel
Maybe it's because this...is not...real
I'm sabotaging each dream as it appears with the unyielding steel of the shield I wield to hide my spinelessness
I cannot tap into timelessness
Can't seem to align with this shining candle that is the moment
I didn't get out of the wrong side of the bed
I just can't stop living out of the wrong side of my head
Don't buy me no meds
Don't diagnose it as depression
Analysis isn't healing, I don't wanna be frozen in confession of the thing that's broken all my blessings and taken possession of this constantly digressing mind
But here's the clincher
I'm constantly clinging to the prospect of a perfect life
And spinning more chaotically out of alignment with what is with every tiny little glitch in the matrix of my idyllic vista
And trying to put plasters on these cracks in stone statues
Trying to suck vacuums into these breathing lungs
Trying to deny that the sky is the limit
Holding limitless potential within it
And I am that sky
And that's why this poem has no punchline
No happy ending pretending that all I needed was a seedling of good old-fashioned positivity
Maybe what I need is to breathe in the truth that there is every possibility
That I will spend the rest of time
Standing on the live pylon wire that hangs torn between ever opaque doors
One leading boldly into the darkness
And the other into the most elusive, fragile and flickering of lights
And I might just stay here
Suspended in fifty thousand volts of turmoil
And maybe what I need...
is to be okay with that