a taste of my poetry…

I sometimes feel as though my soul has a mouth which cries through my eyes—

Dark nights, it weeps, this shadow-like portrait of myself

And even when I close those flowing lips, still I feel the swell of the tide

Until the woes of me come flooding out like the Nile

There is no sadness quite like this disparity, complete abandon;

Lying in a dark hole that grows but never fills, calling out to those

Plastic dreams that never last and people who come and go unnamed,

And crying for the dawn when the sun never rises.

The Savior is a cruel allure that sparkles from the safe, straight-lined distance,

And disappears when shone on the light of one in need of saving;

And in this shadow where the waves crash and break, I am alone

Save my eerie, ghostly reflection that says more than I can.

I sometimes crawl toward my center, feeling for a calm in the storm

The warmth I find is only tactile and never penetrates

Through my cold shell and chambers of my even colder heart

From which this dark and dreary spirit pours into my hands

I sometimes know why, I sometimes forget

I sometimes cry—unknowing

Always alone

                           —Jan. 4th

I haven’t written any decent poetry for a good two or three months now. Until some lonliness descended upon me from feeling the usual disconnect from the general public. Then I felt a need pouring out of me to express this utter black hole of despair I sometimes, sparingly but awful anyways, feel.

I found something interesting in Clifford A. Pickover’s book (as I always do) Sex, Drugs, Einstein, and Elves. He talks generously about writers and artists, and the link between creative energy and mental illness.

“…a significantly large number of established writers and artists have had bipolar disorder…writers, artists, and composers who had bipolar disorder: Sylvia Plath (the bell jar), Whitman, Vincent Van Gogh, Mahler, Poe, Herman Hesse, Rothko, Twain, Tennessee Williams, O’keefe, and Ezra Pound…established artists have a remarkably high incidence of bipolar disorder or major depression.”

It’s good to know that I’m not the only one who feels most creative when wallowing in a pool of ick, and totally dry when happy as a clam.