As My Mother Requested

I should like him,
I suppose,
or at least be able to tolerate him.
After all,
I've seen his growth.

He began as an afro-wearing bobo,
with v-necked tees,
torn jeans,
and an aura too cool for shoes.
His balance was terrible,
using four guitars
when one would have sufficed,
drowning out every singer but him
in a near cacophony of drums
and electric guitar-
the acoustic one just for show,
along with the violin and keyboard.

Now at least he wears shoes
with proper jeans,
and has cut down on the guitars.

i should be dancing.
right now.
but i'm not.
and now i am terrified.
because i used to love it,
to love being on the floor
and twirling about
as i pleased
with men who could not
get enough of me.

i don't know if i love it anymore.
i don't know if
what i attend-
or used to-
during the school year
has killed the joy i once had
in summer.
i don't know if
there's a chemical imbalance
growing and growing,
poisoning my life.

a big symptom of depression
is a lack of interest
in passions,
isn't it?

Icarus III

a mixture
of water, air, and fire
rising to take flight
in a desperate escape
from the earth that
keeps them bound-

fire grows
as fire does.
fire overpowers
what water and earth
kept balanced.

what was solid
turns awry-
from earth
to something akin to
water born of fire
molten wax
slipping across
harvested feathers.

air cannot support alone
what belongs to the earth.

over-grown joy
turns quickly to sorrow
as earth and water
reclaim the wandering son.

a risk taken fails.
a perfectionist loses what matters most.

one soul
falls and falls
without the means
of saving himself.

he would not cry out for help,
in those last moments.
why burden someone
with a request impossible to fulfill?

Quick, quick,
hide the scars
and gaping wounds-
But why?
Why not rip off the mask?
oh yes,
it was glued on
and I'm afraid of what
remains
underneath

Just have confidence,
Just be brave.
Hide the fear
and the doubt
behind smiles.

"things will get better"

Right now though,
I am terrified.

It's easy to cry
and not be noticed.
To hide yourself away
beneath a veneer
for fear of cracks
and dammit-
you were going to write a poem
for a friend's birthday
even though he doesn't deserve it
but fuckit-
you have nothing now.

nothing to give.
nothing to hold.
nothing to comfort.

what good
is this
pride,
this self worth,
in the face of
all your miserable failings
and the ways you don't measure up.

The sun is shining for you,
though I am trapped in grey,
swallowed by shadows
and not enough light-
I'm sorry.
This was supposed to be something joyful,
Something thoughtful
but not depressing.

Maybe there's no joy left.