Monday, September 2, 2013

It's beginning September.

Manic depression... 
I know if I can't let anyone in...
To tell the tale, with no significance.
It's beginning September.
Never immune to the time and what it takes.
They say it heals, but I'm more bruised everyday. 

This Sunday I past by the towns,
Through my village
To find the empty church was closed
And not a minute past doors open...
This Sunday someone found God
And I, with the realization 
That this is more than I can hold.  

This Sunday I past by the towns,
Through my village, clouds of my mind
Cloud the sky 
And sky clouds, cloud the space 
Where I'll be buried. 

Never immune to the time and what it takes.
They say it heals, but I'm more bruised everyday. 

Autoimmune this, and autoimmune that.
Sun, is always shinning over the horizon of symptoms 
And I'll never be sober for my skin to truly feel
The cold, to have felt the rain
And asked you if you still loved me... 
Maybe the saddest things are the most beautiful
But I swear it feels like I'm dying. 

Just say that I can live without having to be a burden. 
The darkness after me
As it is alone, as I am
Forcing me to believe there is no other way. 

And you ask about October and I 
Never seem to mind 
That this may be the final loss and closure 
But maybe these's a place where we can see 
The autumn leaves fall and blow away.

The final poem or final letter...

It's beginning September.

...

In my mind, there's always some horizon 
Of symptoms... 
The untold mystery 
From the heart that keeps feeling guilty.  
Keeps loving more when love is draining 

Never immune to the time and what it takes.

Clouds of my mind
Cloud the sky 
And sky clouds, cloud the space 
Where I'll be buried. 

 And you ask about October...

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