Tag Archives: depression

The Everything and the Nothing


If I were to suddenly evanesce, to flee, to disappear, 
to run fast and headlong into the bright nothingness of the night,
what ruin would find my absence?

Would their be sick wailing siren calls of the once was
reaching my soul's ears 
through the
nothingness of me?

I hope not. Not Wailing over me.... a tear or two will do, followed
quickly with a laugh.

But I do not wish to know the old world anymore after I am gone.
Why dry up and go, if to only to still receive drops of the
once-was in a teacup, to simply drink bitterly
of.

Remember me or don't, for I will not care as
I lie afloat amongst the stars, dreaming of new
things, new worlds, new excursions to catapult
a frayed mind to healing, to repair a ripped soul
torn asunder.

Cry and smile in the same instant is
all I ask of you if you do remember, for I
liked to be missed in both respects.
So I guess I do care a little at that.

I believe in everything and nothing in this Universe and I
would miss both aspects were I to finally fall into the
abyss of what-not and possibly nothings.
 
I enjoy the Everything of  people healing of the
cuts they give themselves and get,  and its wondrously satisfying
to partake in living in that magical epiphany 
of them 
I do not enjoy the Nothing, in the sense that 
they will continually scratch the scabs to bleeding
every so often and there is no mop big enough, 
nor pail of water full enough 
to ever fully clean it all up.

I am tired of slipping in their blood.
The Everything of them is wonderful
buy sometimes the Nothing of them
becomes all too much. 


By Philip Wardlow Dec, 2021










 





 

	

I know I won’t cry


They say parents shouldn’t outlive their kids, but should an older brother outlive their younger?

Much like a parent, the older brother directs, and protects the course of the younger.

Unlike parents, the older brother can also be a partner, a fellow perpetrator of many a fun misdeed gone awry. That is where bonds lie deepest, where intimate secrets are kept and held between a kin closer than that of the mother or father.

Sharing of sins, and the punishment of those sins, sharing in the joys and adventures that is youth in its whole.

You share a core with that little brother that none may know. It’s unspoken but known to the bone between you two.

To the Bone.

It’s honored, it’s delicate. It’s something that always dwells.

So when you see your little brother, dismal and seemingly damned, fallen and fragile, raging against an unknown foe and miles from the place in him from where he was once was, you know.

Where in the core that you share, now only dwells despair, you weep, and you weep, and you weep in the silence where no sees, because a man doesn’t cry, they simply don’t.

You know you won’t cry as he lies in a casket, all dressed and prettied up. You know you won’t cry when other’s speak of him in passing or come up to you with a hug, and “I am sorry for your loss”

You know you won’t cry simply because you have already cried so much as bit by bit of your little brother was pulled from you, excised with a sharp knife, and put into a blender and pureed to mush.

By Philip Wardlow June 2021

Plants need watering


The flower sits on the table, withering,
it looks tired now. Slumped.
Sad.
Dead dry leaves litter the ground
around it.
Perhaps not watered enough, perhaps
drowned with rotted roots
Perhaps too much sun as it
sat in a hot room,
or were the shades drawn too tight
not allowing enough light?
Choked off in some way
it was, to look so.
Either way it was neglected.
Best just to throw
it way now.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

Padded Perfection


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We slave to have everything,
we fight the world for “ours”,
we strive for perfection,
we seek a look of a dream
that shimmers and undulates
from a hot arid
plane
at the edge
of a  horizon
containing all our  fears and doubts

This seeming perfect way
of anything is bullshit
it’s just bullshit
everyone thinks they’re better than the other
vanity abounds as pride flattens them
under the gravity of their
making
always pushing, and pushing
down, down, down.

Their way is the best way, cant you see?
And if you can’t, well sorry, you are just
not as cultured as them.
There are no gray areas, only
high contrasts and muted voices
in a bubble.

Light and dark
banging against the other
until all the world
goes mad
held tight in a bright white straight jacket
in a dark as pitch
padded room.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

All the Happy that Comes


Happy is never
a permanent state of
mind.
More often than not
it isn’t there.
But it is there
at times.
Oh, most assuredly it
is there.
I feel it
smiling along side
a character in a book, or
lifted by that actor or actress
in a poignantly profound scene.
A hug from across a room by a
friend with just their eyes alone.
To be seen, truly seen when
I speak my words aloud
or write them down
for a stranger I have
never known.
Often times I am melancholy,
weighted, and in disarray
But a shared laugh or smile brings
me back home to me
in all the electric intimacy
life brings,
and I glow inside,
lightened and floating in
the midst of that connection.
Accomplishments, with mountains
climbed, my nature nourished
on the struggles conquered
and obstacles surmounted
that I never thought
would come to pass.
I’ve realized the Happy Comes
when I reach for it,
inviting it in to come
stay for just a bit
until it decides
to leave
and having faith it will
always be right around
the way
waiting to say
hello again.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

What Dreams may Come


 

One day I will know me,
where my dreams and fancies
meet my real reality,
where veils are lifted
and the stars cease
in their laughter
of me,
where seeming gods
big or small
give pause
and throw me a wink
and nod my way
as if to say,
you finally get
it son
you finally get
it, now move forward
and flourish.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

Tacos and Tequilas


Sometimes its tacos and salt rimmed tequilas,
movies and lonely couches,
cold beds and cats, tongue twister
and tying up,
a plethora of pleasures in the grab bag
of life
followed by a deluge
of desiccated numb bodies
dumped on your front lawn.

Sometimes its a magical arc of light
swinging in the breeze
by a delicate hand on a dark path

It’s sweet sugar on your lips
tongue licking,
as you slowly, reluctantly
back away from the most
wonderful kiss.

It’s a flurry of heavy punches
to the gut
tickling, because you have been there
before, and you can take it.
Can you not?

So you emit a raucous laugh
at the absurdity
that the day has wrought.
Jaded in your green dreams
you wake to breathe
in new air
to expel the stale.

Grab a Bagel and go out the
door
as you think of the
sweet sugar
that still lingers
on your lips
from the night
before.

By Philip Wardlow 2018

 

 

Starting out


Starting out,
she was perfect,
snow white in complexion
with hands and legs of delicate
moving intent.
She had a curious furious mind,
flitting like a butterfly.
Her dreams took her everywhere
she wanted to go,
just to be.
Her smile was pure and outpouring
magical and inviting.
Her laugh was infectious and inclusive
Her empathy for a friend
heart rending and knife cutting
to the bone of the soul.

She was what beauty was always meant to be.

Then one day she heard the words and phrases
of the malintent
she’s not as pretty as some, or that
brain between yours ears
will never get you very far
And thoughts of fancy are
best left forgotten,
placed in a locked box
and dumped into the sea.

All her seeming sins were brought up from the depths
and laid bare by muted lovers never seeing their own
ill gotten gains.
Violent beating words, followed by choking pushing
declarations of malevolent “loving” motives
left her mind a fractured land
she was scared to travel,
day or night.

At the start of my first
pause at seeing her
really seeing her,
she was magic personified in flesh.
A bright pulsing blue
engulfing.
A rushing vibrant river come to claim
and I smiled inside
at the taking of me.

I saw in her the inception
of the girl and the woman that was always there
I saw all those things they could not
in her
And I told her so.
as she smiled
tears falling.

by Philip Wardlow 2018

Time, Tenacity and the Reason Why.


Moments flit
mounting to minutes,
then hours,
Days cycle
as the sun sets
and I’m left
bereft.
Wasted, are the stars
that twinkle.
Wasted, is the moon
illuminating.
No inspiration wrought.
Looking deep,
a hole hides
where once
a solid space
did reside.
Why the vacancy?
Oh, if only the
tick tock
of time could
halt, or
grind down to
near a trickle
then perhaps
my soul would have
the tenacity
to finally
awaken
once
more.

Philip Wardlow 2018