Those Dark Depressive Days

All things Mental Health
post your Poems of life struggles here

we are not alone

except in our minds

You, Doctor Martin
by Anne Sexton

You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.

Strangeways_Rob said:You, Doctor Martin
by Anne Sexton

You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.

That was the first poem in my collected Sexton, love it. 😍

Most of my poems are about life struggles. I couldn't attach the poem,but here''s my poem I call False Freedom.

""False Freedom""
Cross my heart and hope to die. Oh,what a lonely life.
Just love me all you could. But it's not like you should.
The crowd is cheering, but the voice has changed.

Now it sounds like it's made in Hell. I can't break out of my shell.
I discover new ways to die. All I want is to fly in the sky,free.
Please,feed me the bread of the gods. I made a scene and it's not my fault.

I worked hard to earn this fame. And now you are calling me lame,
like a flame. I swimmed like a fish,free in the water.
Now it doesn't even matter. The land was full of flowers and bees.

Now it doesn't even have grass and trees.
I climbed on the mountain and fell from the high.
Now I can't even see the sky.

if
i
died

oniy
hollow words
to console
those
left
behind

for i am
a selfish
CUNT

it's all
about me
in the end
i get
the final
say

Last words


if
you
died

roses
would lose
lustre

ink
would
run dry

songs
would
fade away

joy would
turn to grey

days
would drag
of sorrow

words
would stop
formation

imagination
would cease it's wonder

everything
would
turn to stone

motions
would stall
and slow

ache so heavy
would be
all I know

only
emptiness

and my last words
would be
what remains


forever
unsaid
.
.
.
.

if

you
were dead

Wow, brilliant write Blue!!
Elenore

Thanks, dear lady ✨
🌹 - 💙
xo

Bluevelvete said: Last words


if
you
died

roses
would lose
lustre

ink
would
run dry

songs
would
fade away

joy would
turn to grey

days
would drag
of sorrow

words
would stop
formation

imagination
would cease it's wonder

everything
would
turn to stone

motions
would stall
and slow

ache so heavy
would be
all I know

only
emptiness

and my last words
would be
what remains


forever
unsaid
.
.
.
.

if

you
were dead







speechless