Posts Tagged ‘Depression’

I’m Not Alone

Posted: August 1, 2016 in Poetry, Uncategorized
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I’m not alone, I’m not alone, I’m not alone.

Frightening figures, fucking forever.

Death is looming over our minds.

Warp our imaginations some more!

never!

You are a bore

to the hand that feeds you

Laying out in the night gazing upon the stars,

waiting for the morning dew

Tomorrow can come no sooner,

everyday is becoming the same,

sick and tired from the day to day games.

I’m not alone, I’m not alone, I’m not alone!

(c) Alex Turner 2016

 

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These walls, they’re closing in on me,

Ruminating rumours,

Only doubting their authenticity,

Show me the light, the one that I need,

Only on the inside do I bleed,

I walk on and I smile or I glare,

Meeting their eyes with mine,

Seeing how much longer they dare,

I always win!

I always win!

I always win!

Eventually.

So come and ask me,

I don’t bite,

nor with with my hands shall I smite your presence,

I’m playing your games and I’m winning.

Until I die I shall be on top,

Bully me,

I could use the energy,

Hate me,

I’ll only love you back,

Do as you please,

I’m infamous till death do us part,

Take me away,

Harrow my soul some more,

Because it makes me laugh,  and I have grown to love it.

(c) Alex Turner 2016

I Fell in Love

Posted: July 26, 2016 in Poetry, Uncategorized
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fake_love_white_by_fakestencils

Is it possible to miss a love that was never real,

So cold she was at times,

It made me feel,

A love, a hatred,

Something,

I can’t explain,

Her fake love grabbed me,

and slapped me in the face,

Every ”I love you” burning in my veins,

 

I’ve been around the bend and back,

Thinking of her,

The others haven’t seemed to fill the void left by your smile,

Only for a while,

Come and kill me with your love.

(c) Alex Turner 2016

Untitled

Posted: October 8, 2015 in Poetry, Poetry-Prose
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there is what sounds like a middle-aged man sat behind me on the coach.

He is drunk.

How I wish I was drunk!

He has made the same phone call about four times.

He goes on to talk about work and how he hasn’t been paid for over-time.

He goes on to talk about how how he isn’t going to stand around doing nothing at work.

He goes on about how he wishes to get even more inebriated on the bus.

His voice is common and husky.

He sounds like a plumber or something like that.

someone who is used to the daily graft.

manual labor…

He sounds confused.

I imagine he has stubble.

And a short back and sided haircut.

I can’t help but wonder.

Has he found love ?

What are his hobbies?

Is he happy ?

Does he have children ?

He speaks with authority.

I think he is a boss or a manager of some kind, maybe self-employed ?

His life seems simple.

His problems ordinary.

I think I possess some kind of envious feeling towards him.

You know how some people are just plain and simply ordinary humans nothing more nothing less.

Like plain rice, casually just managing with no errors, just plain sailing until he dies.

Nothing else seems that different.

Just kind of generic…

A nine to five sort of guy.

I want what he has.

© Alex Turner 2015

I’m on a road going nowhere, to turn left or right would only be in spite of my pride. I look up to the night sky and see the pinholes through the darkened cotton cloth of night.

I make my way forward, slowly burning what’s left of my energy away. I stop and take up shelter on my lonely road. Ready for some shut-eye, the exhaustion lingering in my bones.

The next day, I awaken and see a group old hobos around an old oil drum. Although they have nothing, they have smiles upon their faces. Taking each and every moment as it comes, and taking their memories and grasping onto them for dear life.

One of the men’s faces is terribly aged but he doesn’t seem to be all that old, but his eyes glow with a subtle, radiant joy, as if he has all he needs. Unlike anything I have ever seen.

I continue walking, until I come across an old abandoned house. I enter. There are old vintage portraits of people on the walls and everything has been left, as if they had been living there the previous evening. Dishes in the sink and an ashtray upon the kitchen table accompanied by a packet of cigarettes. An old radio, it seems to be from the nineteen-fifties, is the only node of entertainment in the living room.I leave the old home.

I continue my journey onward towards nowhere. there hasn’t been a car in miles. Wherever it is that I’m headed cannot be a place to which many people venture to.

Sunshine glistens off of an old piece of scrap metal on the side of the road. Beams of light cutting through the shadows of day.

An iguana chases a locust along the ground for his supper.

I lay my head upon a large rock and close my eyes and take in the past days events.

© Alex Turner 2015

Deceptive, small and poisonous butterflies.

Rusty rails and decomposing rats tails,

horrifying my conscience without fail.

Drowning without death, continuing to inhale the salty blackened water,

as I fall deeper and deeper slowly ceasing to exist.

unable to awake myself self from this dreaded slumber,

could this be reality?

Impaled without death seeing my separated body beneath me.

Chaotic shadows whirling around me like graceful impalas.

Such dark and terrifying beauty.

I awaken in a cold sweat inhaling the sweet oxygen that is my nectar,

I am flustered and disorientated, traumatized.

The terrors of my nightmares haunt me throughout my conscious days.

Night terrors!

© Alex Turner 2015

Everyday, the same shit, Different bullshit opinions. I’m bored now.

© Alex Turner 2015

Walking between the cracks on our streets,

Walking in rhythm to an imaginary symphony.

Concrete trees to accompany my urban jungle.

Amidst fluorescence and fireflies,

in search of a book,

” Antony and Cleopatra, That’ll do fine.”

Through the doors and silhouettes I weave,

in order to receive the book I begrudgingly need.

I speed to the cashier,

© Alex Turner 2015

book in hand.

It looks as if she has lost all hope,

she sees my purchase,

then cracks a quaint subtle smile.

I also smile.

I Leave,

and step out into the concrete jungle once more.

Transition of Youth

Posted: June 22, 2015 in Poetry
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The transition of youth to adulthood,

A complex rugged terrain on which to walk.

We long to be excepted by our peers,

longing for approval from the very ones who seek it,

never wishing to be outcast from the herd of half truths and lost sorrow.

It’s as if things aren’t all that different,

Alas, they are.

Being willingly deceived,

just because they feel like it.

Once in isolation one can see through one like crystal,

only it seems to look back.

Through needles pain we walk.

To people we need not know we talk.

We greet strangers as if they were family.

We walk upon shilly-shally on our streets with angst,

in hope we do not meet a stare or a glare.

we treat the lesser few as messiahs and goddesses.

I sit here reminiscing over an illustrious fountain of youth.

A fountain from which I am never to consume from again.

Transition of youth !

© Alex Turner 2015

Medication

Posted: June 22, 2015 in Poetry
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My medication is my vocation.

As if I have nothing else to live for.

Life has become only that which one could not conjecture.

A numb languor.

I awaken at nine o’clock in the morning,

everyday.

Smoke three cigarettes,

take my medication,

the same, again and again.

Whilst it could be worse,

My depression is in need of some transverse.

I save my energy for the day when I shall be happy.

Until then, I take my only vocation,

my medication.

© Alex Turner 2015