Seesaw. A short poem.

He who hesitates

                              is lost

                                        upon 

                                                 a

                                                    seesaw

                                                                 of

                                                                      irrevocable doubt

 

poetry books - stevestillstanding

For more of my poetry, check out Poetry for the Sad, Lonely and Hopelessly Endangered and The All or the Nothing, available in print or e-book formats.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

Want to support Steve with a donation? Click on the donate link at the bottom of this page. Thanks!

 

My Depression. A poem.

I thought that you would let me be
But here you come, rapaciously
Slicing me up from inside out
Filling my head with irksome doubt

Your inky fingers in my dreams
Painting landscapes and charcoal scenes
A bottomless parade of hell in sync
With all my loathing and self-contempt

I thought that you would let me go
But to the end you’ll bring me low
You’ve always had your hooks in me
An undivorceable bride-to-be

Held within your gruelling grip
Tortured by each erstwhile trip
Condescension and lethargy
Will finally make a meal of me

My depression, my black dog friend
My darkness and my witless end
My heavy head and my heart’s quagmire
Whose boundless depths never expire

The All or the NothingFor more of my poetry, check out The All or the Nothing, my first book, available at most online book sellers in print or e-book formats.
Click here to find out how to get your copy.
Want to support Steve with a donation? Click on the donate link at the bottom of this page.

Old Friend. A poem.

I’m spiralling again:
an anxious emptiness,
a long bitter refrain,
that repeats over

and over
and over
and over
and over

in my angry, lonely brain.

Old friend,
you’ve never let me go,
though you always
let me down/
bring me down:
the crown upon my brow
that weighs so heavily
on my doubts.

I’ve accepted you
and held you tight;
a reliable lover
who’s always wrong
and always right.
I wallow with you each time
until I’m bereft and maimed,
every day
and every night
until I let you go again.

Until you return to me
now and then,

Old friend.

The All or the Nothing

For more of my poetry, check out The All or the Nothing, my first book, available at most online book sellers in print or e-book formats.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

Want to support Steve with a donation? Click on the donate link at the bottom of this page. Thanks!

Discontentment. A poem.

Too plain, too pretty
Too full, too empty.
Too big, too small.
Too short, too tall.
Too rich, too poor.
Too fine, too sore.

A constant interchange of
histrionic and catatonic,
a test and trial of long-held resentment.
Find a balance and make your point
before you exceed your quota
of angst-filled discontentment.

The All or the Nothing

For more of my poetry, check out The All or the Nothing, my first book, available at most online book sellers in print or e-book formats.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

Want to support Steve with a donation? Click on the donate link at the bottom of this page. Thanks!

Date Night. A short tale.

The mirror image was unflattering.

She had been trying on dresses for the last hour. They always looked better on the rack and in the fitting rooms before she bought them. She knew there was something about the mirrors in stores. Like the ones at carnivals, but warping everything to look better (maybe she should get one installed…).

It looked like jeans and a blouse were a better option. Three changes later and she was satisfied. Black skinny jeans (almost a miracle needed to get them on; not quite the parting of the Red Sea, but almost) and a billowy white shirt, untucked (why did her ass and thighs look so big? Where was that carnival mirror…) over a black tank top (she was sure it was bigger, before. Had her boobs grown? Maybe the top shrunk in the wash. That’s okay, it emphasised her cleavage more, now. She would just leave a few extra buttons open to show ’em off. Face palm: that was so slutty.)

All this crap for a blind date. And what if he looked worse than she did? What if he was some loser, no job, aimless? She shook her head. Her best friend wouldn’t match her like that. All her fears and insecurities were rising to the surface. Best push them down, keep them buried, like they usually were. “Yeah, real healthy,” she said to the empty room (hmm. It was pretty empty. Maybe she needed to get a cat? Hold on a minute – that way lay long term spinster-dom and more cats…)

Makeup applied, not overdone, but not sparingly (less whorish, more Watergate cover up. Big sigh). Her phone alarm beeped. Time to face the music, she thought. She pouted to the mirror, mouthing silently “it’s so nice to meet you”. Tilted her head. Silent pretend laugh.

She rolled her eyes and headed for the door. One last glance back. Maybe she would get a cat…

 

What is this flash fiction stuff? I only started it recently (and maybe my short tales are a bit too long to be called flash fiction. I don’t know). This one is a bit clichéd, but that’s okay – nobody’s perfect.

Not even with the benefit of carnival mirrors.  

 

Eyes. A Poem.

Look into these eyes
That see so much and so far
Binocular imperceptibility
Local acuity skewed to emptiness
The sight that slices darkness like infrared
These eyes filled with tears and subtle defiance
Look into these hollow things and see imperfection
The blade that pierces heart and sinew, cuts it out, slices it up
These eyes
That have seen so much pain
But have yet to know
Real love   

 

I’m not sure how some of my poems come to mind, or why they are all so dark.

Oh, yes, I do. It’s because I’m a depressed and anguished soul. Well, that was easy. Next question?

Mountains and Valleys. A poem.

Mountains and valleys
Mark my moments
With breathless enthusiasm

Interminable
Inner monologues
From peak to trough
This way and that

Mountains and valleys
The sweat and steel
Of ongoing engagements

Untenable
Ceaseless skirmishes
Each step forward
A new conflict

Mountains and Valleys
Counting the cost
In endless grains of salt

 

I hate having depression. It’s not hard to guess what I wrote this poem about.

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