She licked her lips, incomprehensibly
A feverish dew, luminous beads
A mutual alacrity, unspoken melody-
That guides me to search deeper.

Magnetism without polarity
No witness to confess undue crimes
Healers unaware of their divine power-
Now we caress in our velvet hour.

Shackles and chains extinct from our desires
The birdsong and Sun continue their loops;
lacing together under luscious clefs
of bassy tones, arpeggiating.

The second is nigh that my senses explode
I am not frightened by this pensive moment
Let me drink from the chalice, Priestess
And absorb the sacred knowledge.

Depression for me happens slowly,
And for some reason,
Has never quite felt like drowning.

More like a rut that turns into a hole that I've slowly dug myself into.

And then I hit rock bottom and look up to see where I am..
And in those moments, I become utterly shocked at what I've done. Then it gets worse when I tell myself "there's no way out."

"Oh how tall the grave."

It feels like an overwhelmingly empty pit that I'm stuck in.

So far down, so far away..

But I can see the sky, turning from night to day, night to day.

"I'm wasting time." I say.

I also see the light though,
The light at the end of my upwards tunnel and somehow I always get out because it leads the way.

Yet I dig another.
And another..

It is exhausting.
To be so unwillingly, accidentally, repetitive.

I wonder if there will ever be a day when I'm further than 10ft under but will get so tired that I can't fight it anymore and maybe someone will look in to see a skeleton, and bury me
Once and for all.

A little Mady bird caught the sun ,
having forsaken her nest then revelled in the-
new morn
Dreams of sunflower fields and wisteria ,
bumble bees and sweet corn ...
Oak arbors sprinkled with tinsel
Pungent , turned earth laden with -
sweetgrass , kernel and lentil ...

Sing a song of powder blue ventures
Proud announcments from the tip of -
fragrant magnolias
Scolding her contemporaries draped in water oak-
sanctity                                                    ­                                            
Nestled in mistletoe
Pious morning adventures ...

from one who knows
the hours spent
honing a voice
to cut through a room
the days lived
seeing the unseeable
until the lyrics
bleed onto paper
and the sacred moment
when the masteries
and the mysteries
combine
to rend my soul
and salt my eyes.

Different feelings
All kind of emotions
Precious memories
written down.
A notebook with notes
A box with sometimes
handwritten notes.
A collection of
pieces of the soul
put together
Fragile , precious
To be handled with care and respect.

Shell✨🐚

.

There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries, here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
There are monsters
that walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.