Saturday, August 16, 2014

hear me cry

evening shadows
and vast darkness in a room
claim despair while waiting for daylight in vain;
emotions run heavy and hard to swallow

a childhood dying
against the world
wrestling the otherworldly
and i am crying

can you relate?

on the floor,
up against the wall
restless and distraught
in need of something more

an emptiness
so lonely inside,
it feels like i'm drowning
losing my breath —i'm defenseless

can anyone hear me?

searching for that hidden treasure
light given up to misery
found in the life of a bitter soul
who cannot find pleasure

my groans poured out like water
find no rest in trouble that follows
and i just want to belong
what if i was your son or daughter?

show some concern...

when i sleep
you're everywhere
you're all i see when i close my eyes
—this pain so deep

anxious in my thoughts,
drops of water... every sound magnified; 
distracted by the noise, i keep trying to wash away
my nervous pride —this life for not

hear me?

my heart grieves
pained within me
cursing the day of my birth
while everyone leaves

furrowed wet with tears;
if i had wings i could fly
from the thoughts that oppress me
wishing away the years

hear me cry!

o, God, my soul,
listen to my plea: awake my inner-self
filling the void with life
give substance to the whole

hear me and i will know that i am not alone
i will awaken the dawn
with a new song
to show how i have grown

my soul waits!

hear my voice
—this life but a breath
When anxiety was great within me, 
your consolation brought me joy.

Sistine Chapel Ceiling: God Dividing Light from Darkness
Michelangelo, 1512

"So if I asked you about art, you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I’ll bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you’d probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You’re a tough kid. And I’d ask you about war, you’d probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, 'once more unto the breach dear friends.' But you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I’d ask you about love, you’d probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms “visiting hours” don’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss, ’cause it only occurs when you’ve loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you… I don’t see an intelligent, confident man… I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you’re a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You’re an orphan right? … You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally… I don’t give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can’t learn anything from you, I can’t read in some fuckin’ book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t want to do that do you sport? You’re terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief." —Robin Williams, Goodwill Hunting

This is what living with depression feels like. This poem is dedicated to all those who suffer in silence. There is hope. Please hold on. —Berteena

Helpful Links

Suicide Prevention Lifeline


National Eating Disorders Hotline

National Domestic Violence Hotline

Mental Health — Depression Resources

How to Pray — Interfaith