sight_unseen
The clouds come
Bleak as always.
The leaves drop,
The nights chill.
The coolness contagious,
Always calling to some part of me;
Begging me to join.
To exist in the cool, the grey, the bleak.
To forget the warmth of the sun
And the joy of living.
To drown in the changing seasons and to let them drag me under with them.
Will I let them?
Should I let them?
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.
.
-L
My mind spirals again,
Thoughts streaming around like smoke trying to find a crack.
A crack in the work I do daily to hold it all together.
But now the work seems as if mortar to bricks;
Fallible over time.
I’ve no leg to stand on.
Only one constant:
Anxiety.
.
.
.
-L
What would it be to live without you?
At this point I don’t want to know.
My life was dark before I met you
And you were the brilliant sun.
Why would I even want to consider going without those sunny days,
though now they are few and far between.
Infusing me with warmth still to this day,
I live for those sunny days.
Dreadful though the following cloudy days may seem,
the momentary gleam is worth any darkness.
One day, perhaps the darkness won’t be so suffocating;
perhaps you won’t be the only ever-present sun.
Until then,
I don’t want to know.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L.
I want to die again
Thanks, December.
The year weighing heavily on me;
The new one even heavier.
The sins of the past,
The mistakes of the future.
Digging myself out or digging myself under?
Time passing me by,
Life drifting on its way.
Here I stay,
No longer moving forward.
Always looking behind,
Stuck dreading ahead.
Trying to breathe through the fog I feel in my soul.
Maybe next December.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
If you are thinking of suicide there is help available. In Canada call 9-8-8.
Is it killing me quickly or killing me slowly?
Killing me,
Regardless.
Squeezing the air from my lungs,
Dulling all colours to grey;
Killing me.
How long can I go without breathing full breaths?
How much longer without a good night’s rest?
My soul slowly being dragged down to the dirt as the last of my breath leaves me.
Leaving only this ache in my chest,
Killing me.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
There are resources available if you are thinking of suicide or self harm : https://findahelpline.com
My raggedy heart beats against the shores of my chest,
Beaten by the waves of you.
Tide in; tide out.
Riding the waves,
Waving for surrender.
But you don’t see the white.
Worn, torn, tired.
Steady and relentless in all the best and worst ways.
Never taking it easy on my raggedy heart.
I’ll be ready when you are.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
I’d cut September out of the year like I’d cut this heart out of my chest and give it back to you.
I’m tired of aching.
Even one month is too long.
This missing and longing is nine years too late.
Waking,
Sleeping,
Dreaming,
Missing.
Take it away.
Take September, you can have it.
I’ve had plenty without you now but still my heart forgets this fact.
Let me have my heart back- it beats in your chest as this one does for you.
Let’s exchange hearts and you keep September.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
I can’t control dreams,
But if I could,
I would steer them away from you.
I have no desire to dream of utopia but wake and live in reality.
Dreams bring me to you, to us; to our other dimension, as we used to say.
The dreams aren’t real but the feelings I awake with sure are.
If I can only have moments of you in dreams, perhaps I should stay asleep so I can keep dreaming.
Alas, I cannot control dreams.
.
.
.
Hope this finds you well,
-L
I’ve been trying to write about myself but all that comes easily to paper is you.
That’s all I have left.
Maybe if I write enough, I can let go.
With each swoop and loop, may the ink take away the knowing and the missing, the feeling and the lingering.
Take the vividness and the longing.
May all the memories be the ink that comes to dry across pages instead of tears that streak across my cheeks.
I don’t really want to forget.
I can never really forget.
I’m certain that eventually all pens run out of ink.
Here’s to writing and to hoping.
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Hope this finds you well,
-L
My pen bleeds onto paper ever September.
Melancholy is my muse.
To millions, this month is a beginning; to me, it’s always a goodbye.
The seasons change and drag us along with them. As the leaves turn from green to yellow, and then to brown, my mood begins the same change.
Perhaps I’ll always be sad in the fall; who wouldn’t be if they’d lived the same autumns that I have.
Missing, always. Madness too.
The leaves dry, as do my tears.
I wish to crumple up with them on the ground and let September pass me by while my pen bleeds me dry.
Hello, September.
Goodbye.
.
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Hope this finds you well,
-L
Sight Unseen 