A particular brand of melancholy
follows
occasionally.
I've never figured out
if it is internal
or external.
It comes
and goes
like the moon.
Perhaps it is
the moon?
I think of those
people
that say things like,
"retrograde"
and so on.
They have decided
that it isn't
internal
so they look elsewhere.
Up.
I don't suppose I can blame them.
I don't particularly want to be blamed
for myself.
The ego dislikes.
Should I, too, look
up
for blame?
I don't think I can do it.
The unknown
holds too much respect
from me.
It would be arrogant to blame
up.

Alas the melancholy is there
regardless of blame.
Like a visitor
unwelcome
though known.
And we sit together
quietly;
the weight between.
Living in molasses.
Slow and tired
without reason, 
but for the company.
The worst is the feeling of ineptitude,
of inadequacy.
Like I know that I can be more,
that I am more,
though I don't feel it now.
At least it is familiar to me,
and I know I will return
before too long
melancholy departs.
Until we meet again.

I believe in purpose
though unknown
and regularly unknowable.
What purpose does this
feeling hold?
If nothing more
than muse
to mediocre poetry.
I expect that's 
not 
quite
it.
I do notice
a different lens.
And an uneventful peace.
They are both at odds
with the norm;
I should be thankful for that.
An unearned shifting framework
could be a gift
if not otherwise accompanied
by a lack of desire
to do anything with it.
I'll reflect on that
day by day;
it seems to be one of those things
difficult
to know while in the middle.
That could be a cop out
so I don't need to work
to actually figure it out.
But if it's just the moon
then I'd be sitting here 
forever
anyway.
I'll take the out.

It is a super Friday!
One million things to do
and a million more
to look forward to.
Hard work
finally
returning fruition,
adventure,
escape.
These anticipatory moments
dull
incessant aches.
Plans long dormant,
still,
awaken.
A new sliver of earth awaits
my greedy eyes.

Did you ever hear
Sum41
back in the day?
"Waking up is hard to do."
It was never my favorite
but the message
is timeless.
I wake
regularly
in pain.
Clawing, 
pressure,
overwhelming brightness.
It's not
just hard to do.
If I am lucky
it is normal
sleep inertia;
tireness
and sadness
to leave the comfort.
Instead,
pain.

But

the ultimate juxtaposition
to hear
naked steps
on the stair
wishing good mornings.
Slender leaning 
across
to let in the light.
I reach
a soft grasp
to smooth skin.
Flowers
at fingertips
and for a moment
I forget.
My strained eyes
bathe.
A fresh embrace,
cold ringlets
prickle me awake;
a springtime.
Another awakening.

People want
a perfect solution;
one 
to rule them all.
I want
a perfect solution;
one ring.
There's a simple
elegance
to this.
But the world,
the human world
is rarely so
elegant.
Instead
it is a mirage,
beautiful
from afar; yet nearer,
so many 
tiny 
sand
grains
slip through 
fingers
like so many
tiny 
failed 
pills.

The day still moves
perfect or otherwise.
My bread rises
with the day's
concerning heat
as the dog
[im]patiently
reminds me
that it's time
to worry
no more, outside.
I've proposed
and accepted
less than perfect
solutions today.
There is peace
in small progress.

Sun blinding
snows promise
damp trails
for our muddy paws.
It looks warmer 
than it is;
still slick
demanding patience.
Yet
the flowers inside
bloomed all winter.

Through the window
spying something,
perhaps nothing
though worth a look.
Fresh movements, as
smaller birds
return.
Friends of Jayrry?
Likely!

Filaments,
rivulets trickle
the first sounds
of my favorite sounds;
springs' birth.
The days angle higher,
a simple pleasure
to play tonight
in the light.

Winter's test passed
again, again
each more challenging
than the last.
Through seasons' new pains
new strength
renews
spring seeds.
A painless day's optimism.

In response to a particular musing, “Why do I only write depressing things?” It is, mayhap, because I lack the skill to do otherwise. Among my many abilities, however, is the one from which I take no small amount of pride: learning. So here we plant a flag to commit to learning otherwise, however the fuck; I feel like I used to know, but my memory isn’t great.

I’ll remind myself to be patient; my most recent loaf of bread was my best.

A simple failure. 
One like
and unlike
all others.
A unicorn
like any unicorn.

I've reverted
to the old drugs.
The ones
that didn't help
me before.
The ones 
that didn't hurt.

My brain
presses around
my skull
swirling.
Too
my mind swirls
anxiously seeking
an answer.
The answer
to the pain.

Not today.

I'm to expect
progress
with these pills.
Delete
two hours
of life.
Succumb.
In earnest,
the question had been,
"Would it be better
to find something
wrong on the test,
or not?"
Irrelevant now
because nothing
was found.
But now
nothing to point to.
Instead
a trial.

I've lost weight.
Six pounds
in a month.
What
no chocolate
does 
to a man.
My bread
at least
is getting quite good.
I think
perhaps
I am the highest baker
in America.
I made my first
by touch
loaf
this week.
I love seeing
it rise.
Alive
and promising
to heal me,
or at least
to try.

Today
no pain (yet),
no stress (yet),
no major complaints,
yet.

I feel drawn
to this exercise
in tumult.
So I decided to try
without.

Yesterday
my brain was scanned.
Results pending.
So I sit
and wait
impatiently
to find out something 
catastrophic (unlikely)
or nothing (irritatingly likely).

It is a strange thing
waiting
for sentencing.
I imagine this is akin to a criminal
waiting
for sentencing. 
Not knowing.
Not really afraid
because the deed is done
but the results yet
pending.

Am I a criminal?
In some ways
I suppose
I am.

It is impossible
to prevent
mindful wandering.
Everyone likes
to ponder
winning the lottery.
Fewer
like
to ponder
winning the reverse lottery.
The lottery of suffering.
Grim.

If I won
the lottery
of suffering
I don't know where I'd start.
I'd quit this fucking diet
for sure.
Burritos
every day.
Cash out.
Set up a trust.
Write.
But like
real writing.
Not 
whatever this is.
Not that this isn't
meaningful,
but the ravings 
of a death-row inmate
seem more interesting
to me.
That's a bit
troubling
isn't it?
That there should be more
meaning in lively things
nearer to death.
I reject that.
If I find out
five minutes from now
deathly news,
this has been
no less meaningful,
and what comes after
no more.

I was unable to figure out
how the fuck
to add spacing
to my Anger.

I've learned
two new tricks.
Damn though-
Anger made it tough.