Measured Depression

i was a sleeping pill junkie. they charged me $400 to ride four miles in an ambulance. the doctor didn’t want to talk about “problems.” he needed to give me a name, a technical term that would validate my actions and behavior to my parents. i took prozac and it murdered my soul. this writing is before the sacrifice of my “measured depression” to the gods of prescription medication.

Craving Roses
         for f.w.g. (d.j.sdf1)
dead and driven
towards the sunset
he melts each new petal
into a bleeding beauty
the entire world
into one ball
we are the sky's rose
our aching decay is set aside
wreathed in flame
the night expires

[finally - 5/17/00 JR304 11:12AM]


I'm awake again.
It's 6:07.
I'm naked
I don't know where I am.
It's cold.
It's too warm too hot
under these blankets.
He's asleep.
I touch his eyelids with my
wrap an arm
across clammy skin
and listen to him breathe.

7-16-2000 /////õ///// 9:50PM

Cirtus (Part One)

Simple... sweet and impulsive... I indulge myself in your wonder
I drown myself in your lips
Lips spilling laughter... you are the night dark and sky and stars
You are the damp grass... the ice in the wind
I'm lying in a delicious beauty tonight
I have found you embracing my fears.. my loneliness
With your simple love.

March 2002


i saw
pink lips pale skin
warmth from which i drank
i saw
deep dark eyes
depth into which i sank
i felt
cold hands cold breath
chilled my soul with fear
i saw
icy stars wicked night
struck my heart with tears
i saw
pink lips pale skin
pleasure from which was denied
i saw
eyes of heaven's skies
sorrow from which was cried
i felt
cold hands cold breath
chilled my soul with fear
i saw
icy stars wicked night
murdered my heart with tears

10/8/02 11:13pm for jn/fg with apologies

It's abuse of mobility. It's a sickly perversion, it's warped and twisted. Demented patterns of thought. It's what we live for and what we die for, what we smell of, and what we yearn to hear. It's in and out, it's fear, pain. It's you. It's what we made, what we break, what we kill. Bleeding wretched agony. It turns you to dust, and moistens, hinders death but hastens decay. It's what I want.

It just is.

It's not enough
but it's far too much.

7-8-2000 4:32am

I had a dream.........
......... was shot in the head......
I awoke to sun.

I was deprioritized.
I was selfless,
...........but hated....
I was ridiculed....
...........taunted and pushed....
against the cold steel
>>>>>>>>>>>the gun<<<<<<<<<<<<<
But it was only a dream?
I thought I has risen this morning?

The sun set again
and invited me to
the hunt.

7/15/00 1:28am

Our oak trees had caught on fire, with magical violet and magenta flames. The Razor gang continued to berate the asphalt with their wheels, and Mother eyed her playing infant. It was possible that, among the normalcy, I was the sole watcher of this rapturous scene. The sky has ripped apart and bled a sunset upon the heavy clouds... and no one awaited the arrival of Father Time, but me. I opened a jar and captured the colors, imprisoned the waves of heat, and confined the impending doom for my own pleasure. My own self-inflicted pain. I had disturbed the natural evolution of this ritual, but the sky did not blink. I am insignificant, I do not cause. I function at the whim of a fiery world.

September 2000


This man here has the same sad eyes,
and he hands me a letter of guilt;
his lips thinned from an endless bitter taste
of unfinished deals,
he locks his fingers, dirt under each nail;
I don't know you, sir, I try to explain,
but it doesn't matter anyway -
he wants to speak to a stranger about
his faceless victims and aged shadows,
forehead wrinkled from nights of worry
that his photographs in a dusty box
will fade;
Aren't we all, sir, I try to console,
but that don't matter anyway, girl,
he laments,
This gate don't seem high enough to
end this day,
This life ain't doing me no good here;
He taps his foot on the sidewalk cracks,
eyes glazed over with tears of self-pity,
while I stare off into the distance
wishing there was a different place I
had to be.


It's 11:21
and the moon is
haunting my window
and, well, he
laughs his evil
and maybe I'm
but i need to watch
the clock
which stays
at 11:21
in an evil laughing

        to Danielle
She loves nothing but
what he cannot provide over
a false light
of Beauty and Truth
of Reality and Trust
She falls deeply into a
game of Traps and Shadows
covering the face of
a secret design
created by the hands
of God.

10/11/99 1:57AM

Sunrise in Maryland

three hours speeding
ahead a light reaching across ocean expanses
and it seeps through mountain valley we can
look out a window inside
at sky pink edges
time to rise and depart
awaiting the arrival of blankets of day
to pierce the dark recess of night

[The Dreaming Tree - 11/5/99]


It's 21:28 where I sip cold green tea
two hours old
and search for lost energy
I haven't had that for months?
It's been months and you
finally want to know why
I haven't offed myself or gotten
close to your cold green eyes since;
I don't know.
For a while I wanted to tell you
that I liked your eyes
and smile and heart
but now I don't think I do;
I don't think I care.

Rendered Speechless
                  to David
I'm awake
but maybe I just can't handle it right now
I guess it was too perfect?
I lose myself in sleep, it's easier that way
I slept for you once today
I can
do it
After I find happiness
I just stop
this has happened time and time again
and I don't know
if I'll ever change.
I give up on myself, rage depresses me
sleep is the medicine to forget
I knew the sweetness would only last so long
I've been rendered speechless
but I still have so much to say.

[4/5/00 11:15AM JR304]


I take
sips from life
intoxicated by
her deep dark secrets
I lie
dying, wasting
drinking slowly and
concern liquid beads
upon her forehead.
Does this make
the enemy
I wonder, not really
Nothing can make me
this invasion.
I sip from life
and lay in
my drunken waste.



The flower grows
Each unwanted petal unfolds
To become our something new
Some can marvel
At its perfection
Its glimmer and glow
While I can only sit here
And curse it
And wish that it would go away

The flower becomes
A life
Breathing, and smiling sunshine
Through crystal clear
Untainted eyes
So forlorn
Why couldn't this gift give to
Someone else?

And it could be nothing
(yet it's always something)
Will each unwanted petal
I won't witness it
In our warm April afternoon.



I always feel
like I have lost someone;
when my moods can only
feed off another's energy;
It's inevitable that they will leave.
I could have followed this time
but I have learned.
I could have tried to hold together
But I had left myself apart.
After trying to be
my own life and my own desire
time and time again,
it has surely become
a trivial destination.
What's the point in saying I love?
What's the point in saying I ever cared?
It's all a facade-
It's all corrupt-
I give up.
I surrender.

[5/14/00 8:00PM]

He still tells me his hands smell good. They smell like cigarettes, and when you stick your hand out a car window while driving really fast. I tell him I can't relate, that I don't like to smell my own. Mine usually smell like bleach, coffee, and cat.

He used to tell me everyday. Talking to him lately has grown scarce. I don't care. It's been a long time since I have. We just mutter silent words now, about writing books, sleeping in, the search for employment. He says he misses me. He wishes I would come visit him soon. I choose an excuse that I haven't used recently, and the plans he was making once again disappear.

I hate being alone, but I can't bring myself to leave this room. It's quiet, and cold, and on the brink of becoming dark. I'm always alone. Outside people - they just speak empty sentences, about empty topics, lacking emotion, lacking interest. It is just what everyone thinks they are supposed to do. The truth is, everyone wants a window to sit by, in a cold and quiet room. They want to think about themselves, and what a pathetic person they have become. Everyone wants to stop and wonder where they left their soul, what they need to fill the gap in their chest. They want to... but they won't.

He doesn't understand. I explain that I am unhappy. He tells me I don't have problems. He doesn't have them. They don't exist. And they're magically gone.

I see myself in the mirror, shadowy from the fading light that barely fills the room anymore. I don't like it. My hair is a brilliant orange, like the poppies that don't grow in my city. Or like the glow from a cigarette. Or like the headlight of a train... it always sounds like there is a train outside, but I have never seen any tracks. I hear it everyday. Yet another reminder that we're all going to die.

June 2001

Down, down, down...
Anatomy of a Teenager
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