A message from that time I cut myself off from the world. (circa 2009)

What I lost in my depression

What developed over time

Who grew within my absence

Who called but couldn’t find

The person who they once knew

Who only wished to die

Where deep within my fortress

Of solitude did I

Salute them in their merit

Who tried from time to time

To free me from my burden

Which words could not describe

Though even in my heartache

I never told a lie

But took pride in them knowing

Their strength I too could find

That’s why I keep them with me

Past lovers, friends, and my

Gratitude for suffering

This awfully fragile mind

Grown with understanding

Like fruit picked from a vine

I’m grounded by their blessings

And grateful for this life

Seasons Change

I found you in the dead of winter

We grew as one in the light of spring

Our passion climbed in the heat of summer

And we fell like lovers on autumns leaves

it comes when it does

it comes in the night
in the morning while waking

it comes with a fright
sometimes without thinking

turns on like a light
or out somewhere drinking

when it does
it soothes with delight.

it comes after noon
in Ubers and cars

it comes now in June
in twilight and bars

I sit with the moon
and contemplate stars

when it does
I’m nearer than far.

it comes in the mourning
and pages of books

it comes without warning
in passerby who

look quiet and boring
it comes quite aloof

when it does, I’m
up on the roof.

it can not be forced
like lovers divorced

it does what it does
with little remorse

it comes like the wind
a powerful force

when it does
I can’t quite explain.

The trouble with book lovers.

Two book lovers
sit together
on the subway
reading
alone.

Do they
have
anything
much to say
to one another?

Or
is
the story
they’re reading
better?

Probably not.

True Inspiration.

More often than not,

we mistake our inspiration, for

celebrity,

strangers,

the grass that’s always greener,

when in reality,

our greatest inspiration, comes from

classmates,

lovers,

past or present acquaintance,

who showed us talent we sought to mirror,

who we quickly forgot,

fully unaware,

blinded

by the riches that whisper, like

serpents,

the sweet, sweet nothings of the stage –

the merest hint of our true inspiration.