Dikter om depression?
Ledsen ledsen ledsen. Ledsen. Ledsen ledsen ledsen ledsen ledsen ledsen. Ledsen ledsen. Ledsen ledsen ledsen ledsen och gud sade det var gott.
{Har tre från en bok jag skrev som heter 'The Sound of Waves' under namnet Johnathan Lancelot :3 tog mig typ fem år, men nu finns dem... x) }
When silence screamed
in the shadows of every room
and the house rang with sleep
you tapped me on the shoulder.
A simple wave
you formed far out to sea
where I could never have seen you coming.
I know you now.
I know you well.
You've been here a long time.
You choke the darkness with black water
like ink.
It tastes bitter on my burnt tongue.
In my sleep I still hear the voices of the days now passed
like a tape-recorder I can't turn off.
For every day it's the same
and you only remind me of this.
You make it the only thing I can remember.
And so I fall deeper and deeper into your depths
in pain but no longer as afraid as I once was.
For I know now that the water doesn't ever stay the same.
It knocks me flat, washes over me, staining my clothes a cold colour.
And then it lingers days, weeks, even just moments
before it retreats
building up its forces for the next attack.
At times it leaves me filled with joy, for no reason I can fathom.
And at times the tide retreats so far that I cannot even see the water's edge
and memories of how it felt to lay there unmoving beneath the surface
slowly start to slip away to the corners of my mind.
But then...
I've been told the tide should never retreat back that far.
It's a bad sign.
And I've lived long enough to figure out what they meant.
I've been asked so many times why I don't just leave the water.
Am I held back?
Trapped among the rocks
or tangled in some stray line
that a fellow, uncaring, left upon the beach?
After all, I could leave at any moment, could I not?
Push down against the murky floor, fight my way upwards, towards light.
To break, shatter, obliterate the surface...
And breathe.
But perhaps my fear of the waves prevents me.
My fear of the bright and deadly surface where they linger, always waiting.
Afraid of standing up for the terror of being knocked down.
Time and time again.
Only a fool is not afraid of drowning.
But am I not already?
Lying here beneath and looking up,
and dreaming of the life they live;
The birds that dart among the clouds
so far beyond my reach.
I love them for their freedom
that rests in every curve of feather
every beat of heart and wing
and the possibility in every black and silver eye.
Though I dare not get close.
For if I do
perhaps you, my wave, may come hurtling.
May catch them in chaotic arms and drag them helpless down and into mine.
I have long learned not to let that happen.
Not until I trick the tide, rise up and take that breath of mine,
and leave somehow.
Saying farewell to the sound of waves.
I stepped into the light, this day,
to touch the gleaming sun
a spoon of oozing honey
down the stone-laid garden path.
I took a step, into the world
to feel the blades on skin
of grass which sways to tender winds
bejewelled in moisture, thin.
I looked upon the perfect shells
of polished snails, and wondered
how could I, a wounded stray,
perceive such childish wonders?
For everything that glitters
now it does so in betrayal,
every petal far-too-airbrushed,
every leaf and not a frail
imperfect strand of light to guide me
to a place my wounds
are recognized.
Not cast away. This spell
is sickening me.
The garden is treacherously beautiful.
But could it not be gentle?
Must it be the world continues in its unreined dance
of glee?
Has their passing altered nothing?
Not anyone, but me?
A sickly seething mottled skin
we sink below it; deathly thin.
The water warps our heart; it beats.
The smoothest pebbles cut our feet.
Across the shattered shells we walk;
like fractured glass, too sharp to talk,
of broken things, of long-lost things,
of empty things, your eyes like chalk;
unseeing, much like new-cut glass.
I wish for silence, naught will pass
your lips all crusted, bloodied, dried,
you looked my way the day I died.
Not in flesh, of course, how could I
leave the faceless figures stranded?
Broken down; some parts I've mended.
Others twisted, too far bended.
I live on, in ribbons woven
from the beats of hearts I've broken.
Never once, my name is spoken
and when it is, I shudder.
For who can stem the stream
beneath the bridge we swam
beneath, when all was clear and cold;
the rocks not yet besieged with mould?
And who could take the name you called,
and file down the edges?
The one you'd speak the day I'd slip,
on stones, and catch me on steep ledges.
My name has slipped your mind
or so you told me,
now it's time;
To lay this on its shelf to rest;
forget entirely that it's mine.
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