Presence - r1

My perspective was bright, from time to
time, filled to the brim with ambition;
social cognition was a fallacy
I would prove innate along the way.
Three years at University,

and I was becoming transparent.
Like so many others, I was determined
to change the world; instead, I stumbled
my way to Psych services. I am part of a lost
generation, beyond Hemingway's understanding

of the concept—like many before me;
like the young adults I see today.
However, this is fact not fiction—soon
they'll be out creating ultra-violence,
listening to Beethoven's ninth,

and calling each other 'droogies'.
Maybe that was my generation, lost
in transition, bred for recognition
of failed architecture. We are the Zoloft era,
and age is unrestrictive at this point;

fed pills and coerced onto couches
to be treated by doctors
with more problems than our own.
It's nothing that can't be learned
by looking towards the night sky.

The stars, while otherworldly, share
with us the same lessons: everything is
always moving—I orbit you, as you orbit me.
Duality is lost in two grains of sand;
don't stare too long at an illusion.

In the Deep - r1

I have been anesthetized by the Deep,
and here under a starless sky
I found a home: a place absent of light
where I can sleep.  No doves rest on
the crest of solemn gates I seek, to greet
with unquiet praise—instead, the wretched
soulless wraiths have gathered round
with hauteur flavor: a fitting station
for those in limbo of His grace.

Cold as winter's breath are the hearts
of those behind these gates, and their shivers
are enough to shake both worlds which men
consider to be night or day. But the words
He whispers still echo in this hallowed land—
so strange it is, the lending of a foreign hand.

Missing Pieces - r1

He sits upright in bed staring at the empty wall, thinking about life—about how he wants to hit snooze again and forget he's alive—about how he knows he's going to get yelled at for being late again. What does it matter though? He doesn't care about his boss; in fact, he barely even cares about his job. He barely ever shows affection to anyone these days, head pointed to the ground, eyes lonesome. He feels like a part of him is missing—like someone reached inside his chest and pulled out the piece he tried so many years to keep a hold of. He looks at the world differently now; the expressions on faces—the smiles he knew were never real. He tells himself the dream will end soon. He laughs; wishing every morning has never made it come true—he asks anyway. Stumbling out of bed, he kicks through the clothes on the floor deciding which skin to wear today. Arrogance, fear, depression—he keeps kicking—grief, pity. Pulling fear over his head, he knows grief is not far behind. Fear for what? Fear for living—for his dream—for the next morning when he wakes up, kicking the same shit, asking the same questions. Grief for what? Grief for the fear he has walking through the halls seeing smiling faces—for the part of himself he lost. Where did that go anyway? Maybe it was too sweet and time melted it away in the heat of the days—the long nights with endless dimes and blank stares. It was only a matter of time, he thought, before it dissolved away.