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Monday, May 2, 2016

clandestine closet depression 5/2/16

oh there is a projected sense of order
as habits brashly yield to tasks at hand.
the mind has a grasp of it as all too familiar.
yet the import behind each action
has cultivated a dullness of sheen.
there is a vacancy to and a slippage in the contact
as spontaneity succumbs to responsibility.
low profile impoverishment seeps
into the hidden side of accomplishment.
native responses are lost under others’ appreciation.
audience becomes the backdrop for one’s efforts.
worth shifts to become consensual and observed
as there is admiration props from all around
as if a sealant of sufficiency has been applied.
no one becomes any wiser about the direness
as the silence is misconstrued as peace of mind.
but there is a cavernous emptiness ablaze,
shadow in the pauses overcoming light in the smile,
a dimness to the perceptual means,
advocacy as a cover-up response method’s scheme.
it is all in the grip but nothing of substance in the hand.
not that there is no sightable expertise on display
for the posture is skilled at shielding and defense.
the body may even seem calm but the aura is in twilight.
the casting is a mismatch face overpowering fade.
matching movements to the joyous is slight.
cued causes for commentary are buoyantly bright
as a sort of camouflage from the minds of others.
the sincerity is pure but the gut-wrenching muted.
depression is the loudest form of this silence unheard,
especially when the world is one’s closet of disguise.
who looks at the space between the shower of confetti
with the intent of deeper observation or penetrative insight?
it is like a snowy paper weight lit up into action
but the central figure is motionless amidst the storm.
what causes that heldness to be so stifling?
how could an emptiness have such a grip?
not saying the depression is chemical in nature.
but for this person, the emotional trapdoor is sprung
and all the of self-buoyancy slowly drains.
it is like negative helium balloons that fall out
starting high, filled to the upward bubbling brim
then, for the lack of light-heartedness from within
there becomes a backlit gloom falling without repose.
there is nothing radical or eccentric on display.
maybe even a false appearance of serenity perceived.
now a gun with a disappearing trigger,
then a flute without a melodic feathery reed.
soon tap dancing in bare feet
while inner sobbing provides the sound affects.
exhaustion becomes as if a faint of a smile.
each day’s fill is so much more the hollow of empty.
schedules become ordained
as immediacies to overwhelm the encumberments.
yes, still leading with the mind as if to overcome
yet nothing comes to reconcile, cleanse or mollify.
there are no grounds for feeling true reemergence
as the intimacy of personal vast
has emotionally gone astray.
just living on breadcrumbs from banquets of dreams.
the call, someone stop me from another realm please.
ignore my projections and speak to me needs.
help me set my mind aside with all its defenses as deeds.
hold the hand of my heart until I am emotionally present.
let me tell you the fallout story so that I feel for reprieve.
and now, from your presence
so that I know from where I am not whole,
allow me to mend as your eyewitness provides me.
the world has been my closet as a wardrobe of want.
allow me to refashion my light fluidity in its place,
to find myself by a lead of emotion and not by my mind,
to feed on daylight mind-sight from within me,
to catch myself in every act of proving my worth,
to feel for self-love first
and then a nonverbal means of it for the sharing.
for me to closet is to cut off, to cleave, to sever.
public emersion gave me the camouflage of cover
yet what is meaningful to them is self-meanness to me.
it is denial of deeper truths in me that need a spirited life.
these private principles for me are essentially real
and so has become the impoverishment presented
as I am in need of up-time for inward transitions,
as for finding the nectars of self love on my own.
then my talents have a season for bloom and display
and depression as this seemingly silent voice within me
has no beckons, no recalls, no impetus to stay . . .

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