Some words on Depression, Hope, and Recovery
#bipolar, #depression, #mentalhealth


All Shades of Black

I dazzle in the midday sun
Like a gem that has rediscovered
Its luminosity after discarding
Centuries of ancient dust
Only to turn black again
Under a moonless sky
Where everything turns the same
And repeats itself like
Waves beating against a shore.

It matters not which shade of black
For there I am in this timeless shift
Where light does not enter
And I am turned to stone;
It can be the black of the night-time sky
Or the black of the ocean depths
Or the black of my inky hand
All shades are the same
And I fall ever further into this
Endless hole.


A Plaster Over A Decapitation

I am trying to break out of my skull,
Pour the contents into a fresh mould
And grow lungs and a new heartbeat.

Softly the shell cracks
With an imperceptible whimper
Oft mistaken for indolence and a silent voice.

I do not ooze without a prompt
And each spur has failed to push me through the gaps,
All except, ‘You didn’t ask to be here.’

It is always the way, I am shown two courses:
One of my own, and a touted one belonging to another
With shades of a plaster over a decapitation.

A pathetic excuse of a healing,
Like spectacles of oblivion
And me inserted into a bubble.

I do not wish to be oblivious,
Sheltered into believing the worse hardly ever happens.
It does.

I prefer my hook,
It gives me space to spread into the corners of my new mould,
It says, ‘I didn’t ask to be here.’

To The Lighthouse

To the lighthouse
Upon its craggy crop
The ocean sprays hurling droplets
Against the serrated rocks
The wash of life floats back to sea
And meets me on my outbound journey
A dark sojourn, well travelled
Where storm clouds meet
And black days are gathered
Until the beacon with its shaft of light
Guides me to my station
I with my dragging might
Finally pull myself to shore
Under the brilliant beam
Settled by the lighthouse door.
The days are gone wherein
I lingered, crushed
By the thought of my own sin
I reside there no more
Forgiven, at peace
Free to be the child I once saw.


All Things Blue

In my aching dreams
I see a coil of me
That like some ancient scroll
Needs to be unravelled.
It exists in the potential
Of all things blue
Wherein I reside
Stupefied by my own resilience.

Tough pages are unrolled
Within them I can grow
Spreading leaves
And finding mysteries.
Word are written, curlicues drawn
The parchment dries to bitter dust,
I am there found
In this bright world where actions matter and doing must.

The rain of quiet potentialities
And the mire of strained memories
Inhabit the cobalt heaven
I sift through the ambiguity
Trying to catch a light.
The sparks crackle
Everything exists that can exist
And the pages are drawn
With the ink of all I can be.

Crowd The Cobalt Heaven
(Upon seeing the brain scans of a depressed and non-depressed person)

The lights are out:
Just one star in the cobalt sky –
A sunbeam of pen strokes;
Or ochre, emerald, and vermilion paint
On a watercolour page.

All that space not used:
A darkroom with a single lonesome
Photograph –
An event, a memory: one speck of

Oh, if all the rest could burn
And stretch like elastic –
Fill the cobalt space with burgeoning
Speckles of gold dust;
It would become a new tune to be played.

My lips would sing,
My fingers would dance upon holes,
And in my hand I may hold
An oak idol in homage to Gibbons
Or a glass chapel in adoration of Whistler.

All my potentialities could be fulfilled,
If I could crowd the cobalt heaven
With an electric charge that blisters and tears
The dramatic gloom,
And pours brilliant burning lava through
A crack of grey matter.

When the fertile ash cools,
A raft of delicious lemon trees will spread tall
And bring their gorgeous waxy fruit to view;
I will harvest the fruit and bring them here,
While above me, a billion stars are born
And cram the cobalt canopy.

Copyright 2013 – 2015 , MJ Holman