So If I Miss It So Much…

That’s what you’re thinking, right? That’s what I’m thinking. Why did I stop showing up? stop working at it? stop prioritizing it?

Welcome to depression. The deep part. The silent part. The part that makes you groan when you wake up another day. The part that doesn’t want to reach out for help, because it doesn’t want to be drawn into the light. The part that knows this part of me is beyond help. Beyond words.

Exercise has no power over it. Sunshine can’t warm it. It’s stronger and colder than all of us. And it’s so entwined with my soul that I don’t remember where I start. Or end. Or whether I was ever separate to begin with.

So, yes I miss writing. I miss feeling. I miss looking at the world and finding beauty, even in endless questioning and edgeless loneliness. Those things are not this. This thing is something other, and yet wholly me. Maybe it’s the Truth of who I am. That which I’ve been writing about all along.

I Miss Writing

That’s all. I just miss it.

I miss having it as part of my identity, even though I kept it mostly secret.

I miss juggling words, even though I dropped so many.

I miss looking at the world, at my life, and wondering what shape it would take on the page today.

I miss feeling that maybe I don’t totally suck after all.

I just miss it.

That’s all.

Formless and Void

I’m tired of myself. Of my life. Of my words. I write and delete, over and over until I stop writing altogether. Facing the blankness. Letting it stand in my stead. Unreadable. Unwritable.

Will I ever find my way back? Will I ever feel that excitement again when rhyme and rhythm take over, and my brain fills with song?

I wanted to squeeze every possible word out my psyche like the last bit of toothpaste from a crumpled tube. Letter by letter, wiped onto a waiting page. Unwasted. Still good for something.

Those closest never noticed the tube getting more crushed and twisted by the day. They don’t care about my toothpaste—how much I have, if I like the taste, whether I share. They didn’t notice I stopped brushing my teeth.

I’m tired of myself. Of my life. Of my words. I’m tired of being tired. I don’t know how to fix this.

Still Here


awake in rain, appetite whet
relieved that the burning
was just another dream

the full images failed to set
too tossed in the turning
before floated downstream

where fishermen wait with old nets
and children watch, learning
why never pick a team

is this called hunger or yearning?
waking up is not what it seems

Twice Around the Lake is One Mile


Back to woods and water, trees and sky,
Searching for this god you say is real.
I walk in circles, going nowhere fast.

I walk in circles. Is your god nearby?
Do angels gather thoughts I drop? I feel
Alone out here, just walking through my past.

Alone out here, with hawk and butterfly,
And fishermen who sit with rod and reel,
Praying to their gods with every cast.

Praying to their gods, to ask them why
They hide themselves, refusing to reveal
Who will win, and who will come in last.

Who will win this race to god? Will I?
I beg your god; I borrow theirs; I steal.
I need to find my own god, unsurpassed.

I need to find the god I hope is real.
We’ll walk in circles, going nowhere fast.

Mood and Weather, Both Bleak


no walk today
no woods, just rain
no pond, no sky
just indoor songs

no getaway
locked in my brain
no answers why
life takes so long

when angels say
they can explain
I want to cry
but tears feel wrong

instead I pray
ancient refrains
old words that I
hope keep me strong

no walk today
no breath, just pain
no outward sigh
just indoor songs