I know the depth
or perhaps I merely feel the grinding of motives.
Grey metal cabinets laugh at me
when I work to tell you what breathing despair is like.
Orange peels stick in my throat
as I work to shred any resemblance to a depressive.
Fortune finds purpose for me,
but long wires bent and wracked and twisted gorge at me.
Dark, thick tubes say hello
at most inopportune points and melt my face.
Bleeding crayons, moving in fitful jerks,
paint my history, blister my love with knowledge of my inadequacies.
Still, I pound, I dream, I fantasize
that someday a person might sprout with understanding and enjoyment
while swiftly breezing through my work with a knowing grimace.
stillfugue 
#1 by Carl D'Agostino on July 4, 2011 - 10:00 am
I don’t know how to respond with something intelligent or meaningful with poems of such oppression whether real or imagined except the imagery is strongly present. I read everything but avoid commenting sometimes.
#2 by Carl on July 4, 2011 - 2:04 pm
I understand. The imagery can be a release in some manner for some.
#3 by Claudia on July 4, 2011 - 11:12 am
i think only someone who went through this may understand it fully..tight imagery carl
#4 by Carl on July 4, 2011 - 2:04 pm
Thank you so much, Claudia!
#5 by seabell on July 5, 2011 - 5:22 pm
Despite everything, I see someone still dreaming…
#6 by Carl on July 6, 2011 - 6:37 am
I feel lucky you see that!