3AM

It's 3AM
And I'm in love with him.
He's going through some shit
But he's still mine.
Things have been hard
And I'm trying to let him know
That everything is gonna turn out fine.

It's late at night
And I'm just listening
To nothing and to silence
In the dark.
But I know that he's my man
And I'm not going anywhere
Even if he falls apart.

It's 3AM
And I'm waiting up for him
Because I know what it's like
To struggle all alone.
He's going through a lot right now,
But I know he's tough and strong
And I'm happy to call him my own.

First Snow

Winter's winds whisper through the trees,
Coaxing clumps of pure white powder
To take flight and fall once more to the ground.
Fat flakes flutter on their way to the earth,
Doing their delicate dance all around.

Tonight, time tends to slow to a stop,
While soft snow silences many sounds,
So does the snow call the city to sleep
As it follows its path, earthbound.

With wonder, we watch, while fragile flakes fall,
Ancient magic our hearts remember.
While whispering winds sing an old northern song,
Welcoming white month, December.

We feel the chill of Nature's breath,
And oh, we could commend her;
She brings such peace for us to see
As our fires die down to embers.

Depression

Depression is not
Rain and romance
And sadness and poetry;
It is not beautiful.
It is horrible;
It is ugly.

Depression is
Sleeping non-stop
And letting
The to-do list
Grow and grow.
Depression is
Forgetting to eat;
It doesn't matter anyway.
There's no point
In caring for the body.
Depression is
Not showering,
Not getting dressed,
Not bothering with the effort
Of caring for one's appearance.
Depression is
Isolating oneself,
Ignoring messages,
Wallowing in loneliness,
While pretending to be okay.

Depression is not
Rain and romance
And sadness and poetry;
It is not beautiful.
It is horrible;
It is ugly.

Depression is
Feeling nothing
And knowing inside
That one should be
Feeling something.
Depression is
Knowing something
Is terribly wrong
But not knowing
How to fix it.
Depression is
Helplessness,
Panic, and fear.
Swirling around
Within the nothingness.
Depression is
Agony, crying out,
Beneath the numbness.
Breathless beneath
The ceiling of insomnia.

Depression is not
Magic and meaning
And art and mystery.
It is not beautiful.
It is evil;
It is a monster.

Too Much

It's too much.
Too much to do,
Too much to worry about,
Too much to deal with.
It's too much for me.

I can't.
I can't do it all,
I can't handle the stress,
I can't cope.
It's too much for me.

If I had more time,
It would be different.
If I had more money,
It would be different.
If I just had more,
It would be different.

I feel myself breaking,
On the verge of giving up.
It's too much;
I'm overwhelmed,
I'm frustrated,
I'm struggling.
And I don't know how to cope.

I can scream out into the world,
But it wouldn't make it better.
I can cry out for help,
But nobody will hear me.

How do I do this?
Why am I not good enough?
What's the point anyway?
How do people do it
When it's all too much?

An Exercise in Futility

I am not an artist.
Well, not the physical kind.
When I find myself attempting
To create something from nothing,
I feel as if
It is an exercise in futility.

My drawings are dreary,
My paintings pathetic;
Even my colored pencil-work
Is mediocre at best.
It seems as if
This is an exercise in futility.

Frame my art on your wall,
Under a sheet of white,
To hide the lack of skill within.
I'll take no offense;
Lately I've seen that
I am participating in a no-good,
Yokelish exercise,

An exercise in futil-ity.

My pottery teacher asked
If we could make a cylinder.
Simply a tube, half a foot tall,
But my attempts resulted
In what could only be called
An exercise in futility.

After many failures,
Many creations of what
Can only loosely be referred to
As "cylinders,"
My rage got the better of me;
Stupid exercise in futility.

Filled with anger, I gave in,
Up I stood, to the sink I walked,
Tools in hand and dignity discarded.
I began to clean the clay off,
Letting it rinse away.
I know full well that it'll always come back;
Those tools will never be clean.
Yet it made me feel better,

That exercise in futility.

Okay To Be Angry

It's okay to be angry.
It's okay to be bitter,
To protest the injustices of the world.

It's okay to be mournful.
It's okay to be wounded,
To be beat down and worn by the world.

But remember who you are.
Remember your strength,
Your power,
Your light.

It's okay to be angry,
But it's better to forgive.
It's okay to be bitter,
But better to learn and move on.

It's okay to be mournful,
But better to accept what cannot be changed.
It's okay to be wounded,
But better to get back up, dust yourself off, and keep going.

It's okay to have dark feelings.
They're part of who we are
And part of how we grow.
But never let the darkness
Suffocate your light.

His Silence

He carries his burden in silence,
As all champions seem to do.
He doesn't cry out for aid,
And it's hard to see his wounds.

But I wonder if he can take it,
This strain he's fought so long.
I'm scared the silence will rip him apart,
And I can't bear the thought of him gone.

He doesn't know how to share
The weight on his shoulders with me.
That, or he just doesn't want to,
Though it pains me to see him bleed.

I need to tell him to just hold on,
But I don't know how to say it.
I want to tell him that he can stay strong,
But the silence, how do I break it?

My champion, my warrior,
My better half;
How do I save you?
I need us to last.

I don't have the power
To take all this torture away,
But you don't have to bear it alone;
For here I am, and here I will stay.

If all the love in the world
Were enough to help you heal,
I'd rip apart every heart I could find,
And with them your wounds I would seal.

He carries his burdens in silence.
As all champions seem to do.
But I'm here, through thick and thin,
To whisper "I love you."

Hyper Aware

Every night,
I fall asleep to my own heartbeat.
Listening to that ancient throb,
Echoing in the dark,
Amidst the cold starlight.

I breathe,
The whispering air of life
A rushing, rhythmic roar,
Soothing, invigorating,
While inside I seethe.

It's within;
Energy, pulsing and flowing.
It merges with my heartbeat,
Reaching to my fingers and toes.
Singing beneath my skin.

Every night,
I fall asleep to my own heartbeat.
So vital, yet so fragile,
It echoes in the dark:
My life-force, burning bright.

Full Of Fire

He is full of fire.
Reds and oranges and blazing yellows,
Passion for everything.
Yet he denies it.
He says he feels nothing,
Claims he cares not;
But he can't lie to me.

He is full of sunsets.
Golds and pinks and royal purples,
A beauty so reliable,
Yet he forgets it.
He says he is nothing,
Claims we care not;
And I can't change his mind.

He is full of night.
Blues and blacks and pinpoint white,
A depth of velvet ink,
Yet he doesn't see it.
He says he is shallow,
Claims he is cold;
But I can see the kindness.

He is full of fire.
He lashes out,
He burns.
But he warms,
He protects,
He lights.
He is full of fire,
But he's lost in the dark.

Ghost

He wanted to be a ghost,
A whisper, a shadow,
Following me around.
As if I would let him.
He loved me,
And I tore him apart,
Not because I wanted to
But because that's what I am.
I am a monster who creates ghosts.

But I neither want nor need another ghost.
I have too many of them already,
And I don't want to be afraid to turn around.

He is different from my other ghosts.
I'm not happy to let him fade;
I can't bear the idea of him becoming a ghost.
And yet, he's the first to want it.
He thinks it would be best if he faded away,
Only reappearing when needed.
But I can't let that happen,
Because I need him always.
And I need him as more than a ghost.