on depression, and the repressed desire to stay connected -- how gray is this wall

The words of encouragement which you write
are a whispered song behind a wall so tall and wide, so tall and wide.

I see you through a fog, thick and dense. This place of isolation,
this bubble of unfeeling, is not my permanent residence.

(I tell myself this, with the sincere pat on the back)

I hold a knife to my own throat, I choke.

Oh, I've got something to share, believe you me.
(I laugh, as the words slip out my mouth, slide to the floor)

What a joke!

Just tell me this, how do you save yourself when the hole you've dug
is so comfortable and warm, and the wall so tall and wide, so tall and wide?


--bruised orange

fear and longing at river's edge

i stood apart under the weeping willow and looked out across this river of separation.
there you were, on the other side, lost in your own contemplation.

the wounding arrows of your youth held you fast to your bank,
and i cried alone, in the shadows of my yesterday.

weren't you always there on the other side wanting me to cross over to you?
and wasn't i always here on these banks, waiting to hear your call?


had we plunged bravely into the swirling eddies of these dark waters,
we would have found the safe passage of our journey,
the warm current of belonging to one another.


--bruised orange

i withdraw my application, my heart was never in it anyway

the joyful dancer of my youth
prances about my room, whispering
truths to my all but deafened ears.

'go away,' i respond. 'you belong to a time
i am no longer a part of.'


she takes my hand, but the skeleton of
my existence pulls away from her.

'did you think it would be so easy to get
me out to the dance floor again?'


i am a stubborn woman,
lost to the steps of dancing ways.

no, i choose now to sit here and watch.
the tango of life dances, her fluid body
pouring itself across the floor.

i am a poet, you see, and i set myself
here on these sidelines because observation
and reflection are the only things that keep my
heart beating.

participation? she speaks a language too foreign
to my ears for comprehension.


--bruised orange