A Letter from Inside the Struggle.

I don’t know who’s standards I’m trying to live up to. I just feel that 1½ productive hours in the office today is not enough, when I have jobs due to go out.

Maybe I am being hard on myself, I don’t know why that is so. I see it happening, but I can’t put together enough energy or thought to get past that observation. And so I feel helpless, or useless, or both. Maybe other people can find ways to switch their thoughts over to a more helpful, more positive direction. But for me Even a small amount of depression seems to make that an impossibility. 

Sometimes the best I can do is try and cope, try and get through whatever crisis or reaction is going on in my brain, try and survive to get to another day. 

What sort of messed up life is that? I don’t want to have that struggle every day with no end in sight. So often that is all I can see in front of me, and it’s not pretty. It’s not desirable in any way. It’s not something you want anyone else to have to feel or to go through. 

I could say I stand strong through it all, but that is nonsense. What I do is crumble, fall apart, and somehow just manage to not get washed away by the storm. The silent storm that nobody else sees, nobody else experiences. It leaves me wrecked and alone, locked inside my own head. 

And if I wasn’t able to express this all in words, I wouldn’t have survived thus far. 

Survival, how I hate that word. While it means life at the end, it also means the battle not to die. And I am so weary from battling. So drained from fighting, and for what? The chance to go through it all again? 

A vicious circle of perpetuation fills my sight tonight, as it does many other times. And seeing past, through, or around that to something else, seems beyond my present ability. 

So I thank you for listening, for thinking about what I say and for responding in a considerate manner that I truly appreciate. I apologise for my depression. I honestly wish there was some other way for me to be right now. And yet, here I am, in this unhappy place.

I hope you manage to be somewhere better.

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A Word a Day keeps the Pressure at Bay.

To write or not to write
I ask myself many days
When thoughts and feelings build up
Pressing for release
Writing brings out the emotions
Often leaving me drained
unable to think, focus or function
Don’t write, and the pressure increases
Cracks of distraction creep into my focus
Thoughts wander
while I wonder what is going on inside my body
Sometimes suppression
leaves me feeling numb
as if I’m so upset that I refuse to talk or communicate with myself
The cold shoulder treatment
for ignoring
the essential part of me
Today I skirt around the edges
acknowledging what is going on inside
without diving in and being overwhelmed
It’s a little tense
But I hope I will be understanding later
When I really need my support.

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[ This non-emotional writing is brought to you by “I needed to get work done today” ]

A Sort Of Death.

What’s up, she said
Dunno, he said
Just laugh, she said
Fuck off, he said
You’re cruel, she said
You’re mean, he said
‘Fraid not, she said
You’re hot, he said

And back and forth the conversation goes
With both sides standing their ground
They wonder if they will becomes foes
Or a friendship that will stay sound

He wants to explain about all the pain
That comes and goes through his head
But no understanding becomes such a drain
That he shuts down and shuts up instead

“Oh, how I wish…” and “If only she…”
Are frequently upon his thoughts
But expecting a change in someone can be
Leading too death of a sorts

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About To Pop.

Sexual frustration
Builds so quickly
And
Tired nights and busy days
Inhibit its release
But never its potency.
Wanting you keeps me alive
Feeling rejected kills me.
Trying to communicate this
drains my energy

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My response to: “The urge of the body; is the process of the mind – constantly evolving.” ChattyOwl.
Check out her poetry as well.

To Sleep Or Not To Sleep.

Just a few hours sleep
But the body awakes
At Sunrise
It’s time to start the day
But I want to stay sleeping
Relaxing and rest
Sunday morning’s the time
To do that the best
So my earphones go in
Calming music to listen
The lull of familiarity
But there’s a division
Between body and mind
Like a dream in reverse
I lay here wondering
What is real and immerse
My thoughts back to dream land
Last night, how I felt
There was fun and adventure
New experience was dealt
By a close one in sharing
Themselves in me asking
What I wanted what desires
Were there for the grasping
So this morning I release
Sleepless frustrations
And focus on writing
Today’s creations
Do what I can
While energy lasts
By early afternoon
More sleep is forecast

Writing Frustration.

Trying to write
How I feel
Get it out
Consistently real

Desiring neatness
Of form

Or at least
A pattern of words
Message enhancing
Creative flow

But each line
Takes me further away
From a pleasing origin
Towards the unknown
Scattered
Everywhereness
Of fragmented
Poetic leftovers

Or was it
A mixed bag
Of seeds
Requiring germination?

A crazy book idea

I’ll write a book called “My week of sexual frustration” and it will make some people ponder, others will be sad, some will laugh. But they will all say “So true, what a tale of real life it is”
It won’t be a best seller. It will be spread through social networks. People will discuss it at parties as they contemplate their own relationships. Someone will finish reading it in a coffee shop, and declare out loud “I am free of my frustrations”. And it will eventually be forgotten, but it will have touched so many, and the world will have become just that little bit better.