one year later

I published the first part of my first novella a year ago today.

What has changed since then? I’m happier, over all. Still stabbing pain and bleak heartache devoid off all hope from time to time. But actually some blue sky breaking through the melancholy. Entire days, or at least afternoons, of blue sky.

Because it always gets better, with time.

This is something you learn, when you are naturally inclined to melancholy and yet still have to get up and make a life for yourself: depression is a no-good dirty liar.

It tells you that you will never be happy ever again. Just like the Dementors in the Harry Potter series, which are a symbol of the author’s own struggles, depression sucks.

dementors are depression

Oh, alright, that was a bit on the nose.

Have I ever gotten to the point where I thought I should just… leave? Yes, once. I sat with a gun in my lap for, honestly I don’t know how long.  Most of the day, one cold January day. I wasn’t in the frame of mind to check the time.

What saved me was my dog. I didn’t want to leave her alone with my dead body but I couldn’t just call someone and tell them I was going to shoot myself either. So I decided to call someone and instead let them help me.

That was a long time ago, but it is important to remember that it isn’t the ones we love that tie us to this world, make us decide to stay, it’s the ones who need us.

I feel like I should include a song now. Not sure why Michael Stipe is wearing a painted on blue mask, other than… wait, okay, I get, nevermind.

Like I said in the post just prior to this one, my poems have lots of common threads that lace through them and bind them together.

Right now, I am trying my best to finish up a book of poetry and get it published by the end of the week.  The poem below has some similarity to libations from my second collection of poetry, in that the rhythm is in odd beats.  It is unique among all of my poems, in that the rhyme scheme is ABAC, etc. and not the traditional ABCB.

This might make it seem a little awkward, but it is supposed to be that way.

Because irony.

Oh, alright, I’ll explain further.

Swans are graceful and beautiful and are supposed to sing a transfixing and tragic song upon their deaths.

Ergo: I am not a swan, because no.

You might also notice that the poem is kind of, sort of, somewhat bitter.

Again, that was intentional.  I have had too many people in my life with obviously too much time on their hands trying to convince me that I should… leave… not be here.

I’m not going to give them the pleasure of seeing me play out the Black Swan.

There is also some push-back on being asked to be a stereotype and perform the same way time after time after time for rich people who have no depth of spirit or thought.

And there is a line straight out of a song by P!nk.

Cue the music, dim the lights, the bird is the word. Enjoy.


I have both the lightness and the dark
inside my doom’d heart.
my life’s blood runs hot enough to spark
all your pretenses.

putrid, preening and pimping poombahs,
such fat geese are you.
as I die each night to your canned ahhhs,
you become a farce.

you own nothing of my derangement,
death song that I sing.
I’m not here for your entertainment;
you are here for mine.

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Hours I own all of these ideas, but none of these images.
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