This Is It

I cull from my memory

the experiences of my youth.

The happiness, the playfulness, the joy-

all that belongs to the fortunate child.

A stark contrast to my adolescence-

the sheer black of bleak depression,

the restless bouts of anxiety,

physical pain radiating through muscles,

lethargy only the damned can know.

We may not know what the future holds,

but sometimes there is an inkling

that things may never change,

never develop into goodness,

never evolve into grace.

Despair

My life is a ripe grape gone sour.

Pain, malaise, bitterness, envy.

Conditions of the damned.

Sent to Hell before my time,

I am bitter, hardened, seasoned.

Nearly alone in the struggle,

the fight to be understood, loved,

cured of my damnation.

“Help me” I say,

sometimes loud, raging with desperation,

sometimes soft as a powdery whisper.

Can anyone help? Or is it too late?

Condemned to go on ad infinitum,

I heartily despair.