The weight of a day
Rests in my eyelids,
Holding my breath,
Clearing my throat,
Watching the sky
Turn dirty pink;
It’s rain again,
In a few minutes, I’m sure of it.
The day feels paused for it.
I can put my finger on its pulse.
I feel hesitant,
Under-valued, and it hurts to admit
That I’m scared—
I might have even been born to it.
Sit on my balcony,
Watch as rain pelts the ground,
Shake suddenly, as
If touched by a phantom limb.
Off hand rails, spotting my glasses
With water planets like
Unfocused orbs. I wonder…
How hard it would be
To dive and live in such a hostile world,
And what life would have me—?
My brother thought
I wanted to commit suicide last night
And I feel bad that he can’t read me so well;
I was probably just drunk and listening to Tom Traubert’s Blues.
My spirits are low today,
Ebbing and flowing with the coming showers,
Pink light from the sky.
I guess it’s a user-friendly level of depression.
It keeps me going but truly
Gets me nowhere. I accomplish nothing and not a whole lot matters.
Sleep hasn’t been coming easy of late.
Is it possible that a great war is rattling around in me?
I don’t even dream…
And when I do, it’s just bad appetites,
Amatory imagery, ruddy fingers (lacquered),
Slinking there, making things worse when the weight is too much to stifle.