As the heavy streams flow.
She mourns.
I watch her,
Never realizing her pain.
Too caught up in self pity.
How
       Could
                 I
                   Be
        so
selfish.

The memories stream like her eyes.
The gaping hole returns.
It's being gashed open
I still feel it.
It's burning.
It's cutting.
Deeper.
deeper.

I feel it now and I want you to know.
Know that these cuts I bare.
And that these wounds have opened

For you.
for you
*for you.

Depression is
Not feeling worthy
Of feeling bad.

I dusted off some dreams
and shot them in the sky
I was short on shooting stars
and starved for higher light
My box of fire seems empty now
my ride is low on fuel
But I will tread on comet trails
and drink the milk of moons

School urges us
ever to accumulate
yet what dawns in
maturity is selectivity
not bulk - how I soon
began to seek white
chickens and essence
of red wheelbarrow
glazed with rain.

(c) C J Heyworth July 2014