return to letters to death

© 2019


blue stares me in the face
the blue that you regret
blue you will forget

blue is in the skies
blue as in the colour of your eyes
blue, the note of sharp F

and then the blue in your mind
the blue that eats at your gut
the blue that will not easily stray

the blue, the ‘i’ that remain…

the touch of blue. of you


depression is — when nothing sparks joy


depression is — crawling to my corner and residing there ’til sleep, death, dust


there is no point of moving from where you are. it all ends the same, unfulfilling. that hole of lack of joy and motivation. might as well rot under the sheets and wait out the hours until you close your eyes and fall to endless sleep.

the constant feeling of tiredness and although you have hopes and dreams, at the end they seem so unnecessary and unimportant. the invitation to live, to life, bound by stillness and loss. stuck in one thought, one reason, one purpose. simply exist and breathe; although, you don’t want to breathe.

you try to keep your mind clutter free. a vision of rocky edges and white waves. the only things that give you peace erasing the reality around you. the distance between living and being and the immobility always wins. it’s your home. it’s what’s safe and familiar. the comfort of the pillow under your head.


fighting for happiness
recalling the clear skies
breaking the chains from the dragon
escaping my cowering shadows



should I be a majestic creature, singing my lullaby to your wake? yet, I falter, clipping my wings and my beak. my woes of sorrow echo through the day. a perished rerun of aches and sadness. no apologies will mend the adrift happiness. how stale I have become.

as such, I perch on my branch, all weathered and drenched. exhausted from the flight. my fretting has racked-up the mileage as if I have been scorched through a trial and left a trail of misfortune and burden. but, you sweep the dust of my antique narratives and listen all over again as if the tale has been new and adventurous.

the lament of the melancholy and glum, remains a recital without an end. the days are cast with darkness and nights bring restlessness and guilt. the seeds of medicine scatter across the polluted plate as the nectar fills the glass. ’til morning. I say. the might retains a flicker of a blaze to chirrup the same somber tune once again.

a note of self. the cynic and disgrace. the pessimist or the wry joker. ‘you’re weird,’ they say. ‘no,’ I answer. ‘I’m just depressed.’


depression is — me crying for no reason


depression is — finding no purpose in anything