Sunflower

The florets don’t share their color;
they maintain their vibrancy
and their contrast to the bland surroundings.

I rub my fingertips against the sunflower petals,
trying to extract their hue
that I might use it to paint my dark world
bright and golden.

The florets don’t share their color;
they maintain their vibrancy
and their contrast to the bland surroundings.

The pads of my fingers also remain the same–
bare of yellow–
only the skin-tone whorls and loops and arches
that existed long before my attempt at amelioration
can be seen.

And yet something in the murky cosmos,
though nearly imperceptible,
has changed.


Photo by Mike from Pexels


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O, Poem-maker

Poem-builder,
can you build a poem
of bricks of uninspiring numbness

Poem-maker,
can you make a poem
out of wallowing in silence
from the sadness
that arose from nothing?
Can you make a poem
out of the inability to get out of bed
on the weekends,
of only possessing motivation
when it is for others?

Poem-writer,
can you write a poem
about how heartbreak lingers
and never truly heals?
Can you write a poem
of lessons that should have been learned long ago
yet keep being taught
without being absorbed?

Poem-builder,
can you build a poem
of bricks of uninspiring numbness
that floods and muffles and mutes
every experience?
Can you build a poem
of concrete
with its dark, gray hue
and brutalistic shapes and lines?

Because I feel guilty
when I write these things
and don’t offer a solution,
a termination of the morose feeling
that pervades many of my waking moments.

Perhaps there’s a beauty in these moments, too,
and even if there isn’t,
they still need to be spoken.

I’m just not sure
if I’m the right one
to do the speaking.


Original photo by Alex Buretz from Pexels

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Fake Tomorrows

This cycle is too persuasive
and this cycle calls my name.

I long for words I’ve never written
and for songs I’ve never sung.
I long for feelings I’ve never felt
and for bells I’ve never rung.

I’ve imagined these possibilities–
my mind does this when I’m down–
It makes problems out of naught
just like a dust mote on a crown.

Though reminiscing about nothing
and self-berating causes shame,
this cycle is too persuasive
and this cycle calls my name.

Now, my blue skies all have faded
to shades both gray and dark
with no more hope of sunshine
to light the outlines oh, so stark.

I cannot fight or face it–
I’ve already gone too deep
I can’t climb from this chasm
Nor call for help nor leap.

So, please come Serotonin,
please come Dopamine,
please come Vigor for Life,
please come Fresh, and please come Green.

Take me back to my home–
I have somehow lost my way.
I became trapped by fake tomorrows
and by pretend yesterdays.

I’ve tried to end this poem
on a nice, uplifting note,
but today, I just can’t make it happen.


Photo by Aakash Sethi from Pexels

Today’s resource for knowledge and compassion is the International Association for Suicide Prevention (IASP), which lists suicide prevention helplines throughout the world and in various languages. Just use the helpful map on their homepage to select your continent, and you’ll be redirected to a list of hotlines and websites that might be pertinent to you.

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