My room has no door, for my imagination is not great
and sometimes my own thoughts are so sad
a circuit breaker trips in my mind
and I cannot think at all
There are other times---
times when the pain is so great
so dully intense
that I seek the inverse of love
--a temporary fix
I could jump and yell
but in my room, no one can see me
no one can hear me
no one even knows that I am here
so, I am stuck
neither here
nor there
neither seen
nor heard
and the desire to
touch
know
feel joy
becomes so great
I feel at times
the sheer burning of desire
could consume me
as a black hole consumes light
I live in a room--dark
Outside, kids, dogs, trees
I watch a sun that gives me
no light
no warmth
and I am tormented by a joy I can see
but never feel
never know
never have
In the distance
I see flowers
I will never pick
A breeze
I will never feel
and I observe children
frolicking with dogs
and the emptiness
inside
grows
in proportion to unrequited tears
I know there are giggles
and laughter
but I can no more hear them
than the blind man can see
They skip and run with colored balloons
let loose into the sky
rising
falling
I feel
feet of lead
slipping below
silently slipping
deeper
My Cold
Silent
Indigo
Coat
I live in a room--dark
My room has no door, for my imagination is not
so great
3 comments:
An open wound, exposed, more than exposed, displayed in close proximity, chafed, blistered, bruised, bleeding, in a way that impinges, extorts, a powerful reaction. There is something about the sentence and sometimes my own thoughts are so sad, the frankness of statement, the simple, artless communication of this reality, the words so sad as they arrive in order and meaning, in understanding, are so essential, so pithy. So sad. Used as we are to your ability to instill the emotion that you are conveying, the feelings of connectedness that arise real as relationship from your writing such that tear provokes tear, smile evokes smile, heart in the moment one would very nearly assert becomes heart, this sentence belongs in another league, the wordless, the unexplained, where the depth (of emotion), the pureness of it, is (personal, undefined, unknown) transcendent. I want to say the words don't matter, but it would be misinterpreted, since it could not be understood for anything else than what it says, but it isn't a conscious experience, so to speak, the reading of this piece, and that is despite very many noteworthy (all the way through to be honest, beginning to end) lines, parts, expressions, more a piling, heavy, dense, fogging sight and mind with the emotion being expressed, meaning and mood, the sadness, the aloneness, apartness. Writing that wraps within its matter, inescapable, aptly so given context, and another where commenting seems only to have taken away from what it is, when intent is to express how very moving it is. And how beautifully written, beautiful as pure.
When one is suicidal, not thinking or pretending, but truly suicidal, there is no desire to talk or explain or write or communicate, there is only the desire for cessation. Nothing else holds meaning. Everything but cessation is pointless. Everything but cessation requires too much effort and belies the suicidal state of mind. The sentence you refer to is from the edge. Not quite there, but close enough to see the vista.
Oof. May you be the poet, not the poem.
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