Breathing is like pen to paper—like a paper plane flying with writing hidden inside a single page—
Who will get the last say?
Who will find the message left behind?
Maybe it will land in the water and become a boat holding all the hope an entire ocean can hold—
Maybe it will go its own way on a journey to a new place.
Maybe it will find me someday.
I feel weight on my body,
But my mind is awake and waiting.
I feel hope.
Small, but it grows and makes each step lighter—
Like I’m lighting a fire
And searching for the spark that’s starts a flame—
I will wait.
I don’t want to sink into this feeling I have —
I want to bring the present to my past.
I’ve lived in the past long enough that it’s touched
The parts of me living in the now—
Not then, not at the end, but give me a beginning I can touch.
I want to feel loved.
Depression: an absence of hope, filled with apathy, sitting in an empty house devoid of any colors
or windows
or doors.
Sometimes I can hear a low rumbling drone, like a constant flow moving away from me,
but I can’t place it.
I can’t decipher or understand what this sound is, or where it is going,
but I want to go with it.
On the other side of these walls I know there are roads with people and noise.
I know, because I used to be a part of it
When the Sun left my mind at peace–
So tell me…
When was I left behind in an empty, noiseless city?
A Poet's Pen 