Still Tired

Necromancer sprite of spring
pulling life out of forgotten graves
is there still a garden inside me?
I can't remember what grew there

It's never easy getting up again
after months spent underground
the soil lies heavy on tired eyelids
the ache of empty veins refilled

Growing tired of endless cycles
water wheel curse in the river of time
caught in constant non-consensual motion
wringing out energy with drops of blood

Final First Days

Final crisp air of the last days of winter
fragile, foolish hopes glisten with the frost
my life is cracking open to reveal a new season
finding shelter from sunlight in the cool moss

It's hard to keep turning pages when
the book seems halfway finished
making paper cranes with yellowed edges
translating words that weren't written in english

Skittish tip-toe steps towards the sunrise
unsure sounds of someone else, footsteps at my side
breathe me in deeply with the humid air of summer
protective ribcage sanctuary, by your heart I will reside

Waiting for Spring

Spring is coming, just hold on
I've been telling myself since October
It's hard to have faith the sun will heal
wounds that reopen every winter

Half a year spent holding my breath
how much happiness can be contained
in only three short months of light
most slips by as I'm fearing the next fall

Spring is coming, but I don't remember
what it is I've been waiting for all winter
just a phantom feeling of something better
Spring is coming, just hold on

Months Without Sun

I'm making everyone worry again
morose reiterations of reoccurring thoughts that rend
trying to explain the weight of what I'm feeling
tongue-tied frustration of finding the words that would heal me

People are pleading with me to go to therapy again
the retched realization that I've caused fear I can't mend
my grandma's sweet offer, she's telling me she'd pay
sudden recoil, sinking heart, I've said the words I shouldn't say

I'm hurting the people I love again
allowing personal pain to pull down a friend
spinning cyanide webs of sinister predictions
poisoning the future with feverish convictions

I'm having those scary thoughts again
the ones where I savor this story's end
whispered suggestions from seductive self-harm
running my fingers over those old marks on my arm...

Let Me Sleep

It's not fair I can't fall asleep with the trees every winter
and only rise again when the distant sun returns
being left abandoned in this windswept landscape
is too much agony to endure year after year

Left to live as a corpse in this cold darkness
denied the sweet slumber offered to half of nature
unable to escape into an expanded unconsciousness
until I am awaked by the scent of spring flowers

Half my life is wasted waiting for the thaw
huddled into myself for safety and warmth
where the beauty of the silent snow
cannot creep into my veins

Patience is a virtue I have not been artful in
the ticking clock torments me and tears me down
telling me I must rise and not let time slip by
while my delicate soul continues to shiver

January 2023

January punishes with pale grey glances
punctuated by ragged breaths of sharp wind
the air is empty of all familiar affection
no more lingering, soft caresses from the sun

The candles have all been extinguished on hearths
and families that had gathered for feasting
seem to have long since dispersed and dissolved
back into this new year of silent, bleak darkness

Expected to set goals while my soul is frozen over
exhausted by the pitiful effort of just trying to get by
themes of death thud against the weather worn door
while paper crane wishes are swallowed up in icy oblivion

Winter is a season where time stands still
and all perspective on life is lost within waiting and
the halfhearted insistence I'll feel good again in spring
promise me this practice of painful patience will pay off 

This is the New Year

The new year emerges under ice and snow
the shivering beauty of fresh starts
are still tangled with somber shadows

The new year reminds us that beginnings and endings
are both as sharp as the cutting winter wind
amid this season of death, space is made for the spring

The new year slips silently past the white horizon
bringing the bright, painful light of sober morning
to aching heads and rooms littered with good time debris

The new year offers a choice to change
the opportunity to bravely face another blank slate
a promise we can make ourselves to keep moving forward

Christmas is Over

Soft warm light suspended
in the brutal vacuum of snow
one final day of indulgence
before the empty months commence

January is the longest part of the year
a vicious nod to immaterial time
that contracts and expands as it pleases
to trap us in the cold violence of winter

The sunshine tide will slowly ascend
further up the shores of frozen evenings
to melt the aching numbness of 
vitamin D and dopamine withdrawal

But even the faithful repetition of 29 years
cannot convince me that the trauma of winter
will give way to green abundance once again
and melt this ice inside my veins

Waiting in this black and white is a reminder
that I still haven't found the patience
I was promised would come with age
just more pain piled on with yearly practice

Winter’s Beauty

Cotton candy sunrise ascending
over frost covered hills
commands the soul to stop
and take notice with silent reverence

Cold light magnified through
icicle laden limbs of trees
is obscured behind private clouds
created by every exhale

Pristine beauty pervades the stillness
of the snowy winter months
stirring up a pious inner hope that
death will somehow seem as lovely

Lost Appetite

Certain seasons of life pass by
in a painful haze of indifference
all appetite for living has been lost
a shade of sadness that turns the stomach
and leaves you without even a taste for longing

Sifting through the sterile earth
the ashen grey dust of memory
searching for even an aftertaste of delight
hope can only sprout in the fertile soil of
a desire for better things to come

When even yearning has gone sour
this prison of depression is complete
the gaping maw of all consuming despair
swallows up past, present, and future alike
into the black hole vacuum of its belly

Not even light can escape this sunken place inside
a yearly ritual of falling head first
into the black and white chasm of winter
exhausted limbs clinging to
a foggy faith in the coming spring