may be depression
what is depression
drenched in sweat during
a session
these weights are pressing me
for a confession
what can i say
to the pale face
staring back my way
from the reflection
what is depression
when i can laugh
at the function
and i can find joy
though often in connection
to destruction
every positive mention
is challenged by my
conscious
every good feeling ever
is under cover of deceit
every achievement comes with
this tension
me fervently seeking out
receipts
what is depression
and is that why i’m
abandoning this collection
all the time
thirty pages half empty
the blank spaces seem to rhyme
more than the words I’ve typed
like some lexical pantomime
this
may be depression
but i suppose
that’s part of the profession
best at my worst
i think
i do my most exciting writing
when the sockets of my eyes sink
so deep into my skull that
the thoughts are just pressed from
my tear drums like icing
when my skin is stretched
thin over my bones
like cellophane on leftovers
stowed deep into the belly
of your fridge with the door left open
to be ignored
to be gluttoned in time
until i am spoiled and bored
when the tapper of my fingertips
rip against the hollowed keys
of my laptop as the screen breathes
seduction into my brain
thinking something i’m thinking
is relevant to another soul
as if
there is another soul
who would care to spare the space
of the trauma they’ve grown
to delight me in the romanticization
of my own
positano
dusk did come, one final night
the sky blew up with hues
red and orange like dynamite
touched the ocean’s blues
I’ll never forget the smell, that night
salt infused with lemon juice
like fruit fallen from the greatest height
Amalfi keeps my heart bruised
still, for all those Italian sights
the one I crave most isn’t new
no coastline or city could ever delight
me as much as my view of you
wildflowers
do we write to be read?
would I write without a reader?
discard every thought unsaid
leave the pages on the cedar?
i think of the wildflowers
along a riverbed
expressing themselves in silent hours
exposing their most riveting red
brighter with every torrential shower
just for the chance, a possible viewing
the hope a bee comes along to be fed
and I think maybe that’s all we are doing
writing beautiful things before we are dead
with the hopes of a reader
pollinating the thoughts from our head
adjourned
I don’t know.
I guess it’s splendid though;
the struggle hits with blinding blows
stumbled, tripped – untimely woes
I spiral like kaleidoscopes
but that’s the show:
try to find the slightest hope
time and time again it goes;
You have to fight to take it home.
And then again, again, again, in tropes
instead of ending, the rhyme reflows
these things happen, but it’s fine.
I’ll grow.
coastal dreams
drunk off minutes
punctured limits
venture past the sun’s permission
these are the times we burn restrictions
beaches and pines are the cure to affliction:
our stipend conditions
working as “living”
just sits in the distance
ticking to riddance
this is the rhythm
we find ourselves in
as sure as the glisten
of light on our skin
replaced now by moon shine
so silent and dim
so quiet it finds me
the time to condemn:
here’s to the roses
I owe her
here’s to the roaming of oceans
to show her
here’s to the roads that we don’t know
I’ll chauffeur
and hope that the time in those moments
will carry on over.
simple pleasure
This is the simple pleasure
neck deep in some nimble venture
cliffs and oceans, uplifting notions
digging up life’s gifts and treasures.
This is more than enough
for me
bored as fuck
during long ass working weeks
But once the work days cease
we turn to the earth and sea
this is where the whole word meets
all of our eyes on
the same horizon
and it sure as hell beats
working just to breathe
Under fluorescent lighting.
That, and I’m back to writing.
this
I’ve been neglecting
this
resenting
this
craving any mention
of this
then
forgetting this
then regretting it
Because I’m
a desolate
mess of
affectionate
memories
pressed up
against my
messed up
laptop keys.
click here to follow your heart
This will always be the holy grail of therapy for me Pen and pad or tapping mad on laptop keys Underneath Cloudy skies Pounding back Coffee iced Listening to Lofi Beats and hoping I can slowly seep into this poetry Read me slow like thick honey leaking from a broken seal Sweet and real Low key lines to reel you in and dig my words into your skin It’s hopeless See it’s what I’ve always known to be the only way to cope with all the soap I scroll past on my feed All the hoaxes; vanity And I’m far from innocent but the man I see In myself has made choices to embrace hypocrisy Only contradiction creates a masterpiece Without the light what would darkness be That’s cheesy But let me in your soul and feel For every gaping hole to heal just take these thoughts and kneel to reason Look up to the ceiling You don’t need judgment to repent your demons Just don’t resent your demons It’s those demons that descend to deal with all your damaged feelings Banged up knees and bandaged grief Mangled teeth marks from a feral beast But this beast is just a piece of you Just a vicious need to Feed on you Just a christened disease society likes to see on you They like for you to feel like you’re in pieces too Like everyone is here just trying to make it through Like “nobody really likes the cards fate deals to you But that’s the deal so boohoo Just keep your head down The show much continue” But that’s a trap That’s a lie That’s the type of crap they say just to hide The fact that they have cracked the code to the way life reacts to change The waves The ripples For every body that drops dead in the middle of an intersection of choice A split in the road There’s a voice in the back of their head saying “It’s safer just to go back home” And that’s what they don’t want you to know If you just follow your gut you’ll actually achieve all your goals Regardless of the holes in your soul Regardless of the diplomas on your wall Regardless of the voices in your skull Just jumpstart your gut and you can run it past them all.
till the end.
tear away my pencil point,
break away the lead,
confiscate my laptop, then
the words will stick inside my head,
you’d have to beat me twice to death,
burn my skin and leave my gory,
and even with my dying breath,
with blood I’d pen my final story.
Anything
If I was never anything,
I’d be the shiver on your skin
As you dipped your fingers in
This river of emotion
Moating circles in the depths
Of your decisions.
If I was never anything,
I’d be the ridges of your strings,
Tied to the edges of your pretty things,
Wrapped up together
Fated to be packed up
Forever.
If I was never anything,
I’d be the flat side of a kitchen blade
Slipped into your ribs to restrict the ache
That gripped your differences
As your lips spoke of distances
Dyed in blood colors and hate.
But I will always be
anything
You ever need.
And so the kitchen blade
is obsolete.
Decision
I’m constricted
To these self-inflicted
Restrictions,
I say I’m writing romance,
But I really love science-fiction.
I guess I’m chasing paychecks,
Or the dream thereof,
And I’m worried
if I trust my heart,
will I make the right
decision?
Author’s Fate
Hours and hours and hours pass by,
The words on this page
are erased
and denied,
I rip through each sentence,
intending
to refine,
But the endgame is hatred:
fatal and blind.
I’m slaved to my words, cemented and paved to habits and urge, I’m claimless like faith that’s been shamed by its church, the thoughts I display are delayed or reversed, and soon I am spraying some lame ass, failed verse, rehearsed ‘cause I thirst to conquer the earth, but low and behold I’m as common as dirt, I’m as special to life as a child is to birth, I’m putting my faith on this page and these words, but the endgame is hatred, I’m only delaying the hurt.
Better Than Perfect
Morning sun, open blinds,
Face on chest, hands intertwined,
Waking up, we take our time,
I’m privy to your morning smile.
She’s better than all life combined,
And damn she just gets better
With the pass of time,
Like a classic piece of literature
Or an aging wine,
She’s a perfect girl,
Soon a perfect wife.
G. Z. Kieft 