Progression
Progression
or depression,
it depends on the portends.
But never
regression.
My spirit is alive:
put your palm on my chest
and feel how hot it burns.
It is, instead, as noted,
of the mind.
Once a week
I am filled to brim with blue
so I wring myself dry
in the night.
In the morning,
an image of sorrow
imprinted on my pillow
BREAKING NEWS
it is not.
It is well-known history.
I would like to thank
my editor and therapy.
You could say
I’m stuck in limbo
but this is not a competition
for how low I can go.
For I do not long for death;
I yearn for life—a life.
...
it glows in the dark,
that flying spark I seek;
I grab it—desperately—
and open my palm to find it
crushed,
and fading out.
