As I fall again into Depression,
This weight is something more than I can stand.
And again, Gravity will play the robber,
— again and again and again.
— The thief persuading me to fight against it
— like I had a chance.
I’m sorry for the bruises
I inflicted upon you,
I never meant harm
only to have you with me.
— Just in case.
Creases and folds of your pages,
Slight tears to the edges,
Shoved into my bag with my shoes
So I can walk the beach
— an observational disaster,
— Lucky for the reprints, Barber
Here I sit 7km out
to do some writing,
But I can barely hold this pen.
— Dribbling across the page
— 38 on an infant stage
If the strength of my calves,
Could be transferred to these fingers,
If some kind of inspiration
Could ravish my brain
Instead of the sunken skin across my face
Pulling at my bones, dragging down my crown
Threatening to reveal the tears sidling under the balls of
— my white eyes.
If there was another way, Marlowe
To survive the death,
And still be remembered
Would the pseudonym fit the words?
Or would they bleed another lie from the quill,
Like all half-truths when distilled?
— Begging for more explanations
— As though rational deductions
— Could change the outcomes.
— I was a summer squall
— Crashing waves upon the shore,
— Ignoring the heat of the beating sun
— Exiting my return with a plumb
A life in verse
Remember the lines,
— remember the lines,
Avoid the curse,
— It was all for naught.
- 18/01/15, Gisborne