Poetry

What destroys me is hearing about my friend's depression not because it's a burden oh no not because it weighs on me too but I see my friend as a hero as having it all together Having all the success and the things having achieved the daily self control to do the habits to get to her goals and her depression makes me feel uneasy If I could hold a mirror up maybe she could see how wonderful she is but I have no mirror So what do I have? my words. Can I use my words to heal her heart? my greatest desire. is to live free of depression.

It's been ages since I've thought about them, these words After a big project I dive deep and deeper into the dark depths of what's next and what if I can never do better than that? stop go. Stop go. Hurry up and wait. This space feels like everything I fear closed, judgmental, and alone I think back only a few months ago I was open and thriving and connected. Now, here I am alone. As happiness evades, my routine crumbles slowly and I stand In the wake of my destruction knowing it's time to clean house to move again into a routine and to make time for me. If I can feel deeply proud of achieving, I can feel the deep shame of not. So, standing taking stock seems so trivial But we need to recover our energies just as much as we need to use them.

Who I am now would have astounded 8 year old me. I used to think that when I was 33, I would have been an internationally known author. Married. Living in a high rise in the big city. Having lived overseas. Having travelled alone. Having making love on a beach in the middle of nowhere. Having lived. maybe with a capital L. and so to my eight year old self - thank you. Thank you for dreaming. I have lived all those things. I have celebrated. I have danced with band aids wrapped on my feet to a song I had never heard before at 9am. Oh and I have gone to Bachaturo twice. and half me. Lives there still.  I  have met her. I will not tell you who. but, when I was there, I met her. The me that lived there. and suddenly I was at peace. I know. What is mindfulness and yoga and whatever? It's remembering that you actually know. It's I know I remember I am Ok. I know I remember I am Ok. Ok. You live here.

When winter comes, I feel it in my bones later. I can tolerate exactly 14 days. This new introspection of my own reactions to the seasons, have come about as in my maturity, I can see past the present moment. But, I wonder if using poetry as a system of tracking my seasons will prove an exercise in futility. Since most of what I do is intuitive. Oh, there, there. Nothing is ever wasted. There is always some thing there. We had to change the lighting in the house today since the sun has. Why are we so afraid of change when change is all we've ever known? Winter, probably.

Is it love If he doesn't read My poems. Is it love If you don't paint Together. Is it love When the chores go unnoticed? Is it love

You hurt the deepest Part about myself With your words So profound And emphatic The tears I cry Are not for you They are my Mourning For every time I saw with my Perspective Askewed Disabled Flawed Weary Hopeful Heart. Nothing is real Except love. If you do not Want to love me Am I not real? My tears remind Me I am real. And then I breathe And I feel Hurt.