Battling with my Heart

As long as I’ve had memories, I’ve battled with my heart;
It doesn’t want what’s best for me, I know —
Each day that I awake, the fighting once again will start;
It happens now, wherever I may go

Like rings inside of rings, as though I was made out of Saturns:
I try to run, but there’s no place to hide —
They say that it’s my mind, the weaving of genetic patterns;
To me though, it’s just who I am
Inside

If love could make a place for you to fall…

If love could make a place for you to fall,
A place where life would never come undone,
I would pay any price, I’d risk it all,
To try to shield you from yourself, my son
 
There is no heartbreak I could undergo
I would not take, if I could help you see;
But no amount of love has worked so far,
No guidance kept you from your misery
 
Because I’ve seen your joy in minutes past,
Because I know the good that’s in your heart;
Because I’ve also seen the opposite —
The mental conflict tearing you apart
 
If love could make a place for you to fall,
Where I knew you’d be up again, somehow,
I spend my every waking hour at this –
My son, my son, to help you
Help you
Now

Onset

A drop that spreads into a pool,
And bleeds his conscience thereupon;
To be, but be a useless tool —
He feels depression coming on

The slow way in, the quick way out,
The answers leaving only doubt,
The dash that turns to marathon —
He feels depression coming on

A spectacle, phenomenon,
This sophistry of heart and soul:
An actor, daily in his role —
He feels depression coming on

A night that never sees a dawn,
A breaking down once shades are drawn,
When all he is, is lost, and gone —
He feels depression coming on

deserved

she lived awash in frenzy,
wracked with fear;
i knew her when we both were
locked in here —

i lived, and she did not.
i don’t know why:
some stumble on, while
others stop, and die —

I wept, and watched time stop,
and space get curved:
for neither of us got what we

deserved



[For another poem on the same subject, see this. – Owen]

Mentally Ill

My youngest son, who I love with all I am.

My youngest son is mentally ill,
His troubles are immense:
He is very bipolar
In its actual, technical sense

He spends the lonely nights depressed
Or making manic rounds:
He strugges with identity
With wild ups and downs

And while he has professionals
In mental health advising
There have been many side effects
From his treatment arising

They say that love’s transformative
To those within its thrall:
But though I’d give my life for him
It hasn’t helped
At all