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Niamh

Poetry

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Depression

When will you call?

When will you call?
When my body is cold in the ground,
or as I take my last breath?

It's dark and lonely in this place,
my thoughts shout and echo
whisper and sneer,
you're a burden
no one wants you here.

When will you call?
I have a knife in my hand,
the end is near.

I see the social media posts,
telling me you are there,
but a  phone call away,
you are waiting for me
to call in for tea.

When will you call?
you say you love me,
but I don't believe you.

I will not call you,
I cannot call anyone,
for this depression,
the darkness, the blackness
that holds me captive

will not allow me that solace,
it tells me over and over
that I am not good enough
not worthy of your love
of time in your busy life.

When will you call?
Knock on my door? 
Do you know it could save me?

Night train…

crashing through my brain,

never stops,

round the clock,

always on the move.

Casual passengers

fight for space,

worries and fears

compete for seats,

Each breath seems

to shout out

all aboard, all aboard,

come keep me awake.

The night and dark,

welcomes each new thought.

Images flit and flee,

never staying within grasp.

Encouraging a chase,

to understand, to see

what they mean.

Only the dawning sun,

and beeping alarm,

see them on their way,

these night-time passengers

in the dark will stay.

crashing through my brain,

never stops,

round the clock,

always on the move.

Casual passengers

fight for space,

worries and fears

compete for seats,

Each breath seems

to shout out

all aboard, all aboard,

come keep me awake.

The night and dark,

welcomes each new thought.

Images flit and flee,

never staying within grasp.

Encouraging a chase,

to understand, to see

what they mean.

Only the dawning sun,

and beeping alarm,

see them on their way,

these night-time passengers

in the dark will stay.

 

©Niamh Corcoran  25/11/2011

To let go

the darkness beckons,

threatens to consume me,

the gossamer thread that

holds me here stretched

to its limits.

the future a flickering

pinprick,

there is comfort in the dark

an ease, a knowing, an ending,

today I may slip into

into its waiting arms

sever the links

to a life too hard

 

 

©Niamh Corcoran

 

 

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