Author Information
SLIPPING EDGES
Folder:
JOURNAL # 41 death in many forms
can be a refuge
a cold, quiet place
one could hide
an umbrella
to protect the soul
from all the world's
prying eyes
matchless are these images
the despair has no place to go
when I opened Pandora's Box
the last thing to emerge
was a note from hope
apologizing for being a no show
so back to the rusted razor's edge
I go
hugging the 'Slipping Edges' of the pit
the whole entire way...............
(Nov. 26, 2013 754pm)
Melissa, I love your poem,
Melissa, I love your poem, but that never surprises me, as it is always a treat to read your work. I have seen similar cases of depression, and having been or at least diagnosed by qualified physicians, with major depression once, fail to fully understand a permanent feeling of 'no hope'. What causes one person to have hope, seemingly 'inbred', and another to seemingly have none, not even for fleeting moments? It is a question I wish there were more research on. You can chalk it up to nuturing in childhood, but I was raised very much the same as others who sadly have had times of 'no hope'. Is it because I begged the universe to help me, and the universe then always sent it? I remember times in my life whilst bound and blindfolded, and the gun cocked to my head...hope rose within from the darkness of my mind (as instinct, 'hoping' I might live, that my life be spared) and told me to be still, lest my life be ended mercilessly. What brought me such wisdom in such time of need? Questions questions.... some will never be answered. Your poem brings me much compassion for those without 'hope'...the 'christ' of life.
.......
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "
Thank you so much nightlight.........
I so enjoyed your insight and personal contribution to the subject. For we poets, I believe it is the poetry that comes, which saves us many times and in a great many ways so that we do not find our own selves submerged in such bouts of hopelessness. We can be that one little light that shines into the darkness. I'm sure you yourself have been a light for others. It goes with the territory. Sincerely, your friend in all things good and poetic, Melissa
...and how does one with no
...and how does one with no hope for self give hope to another? Is it possible?
....hope is the savior of human life.
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "
Slipping Edges
on slipping edges we're helpless
in death we are hopeless
through life we open our eyes
imprisoned by blindness
confused by our timeless
uncertainty day after day
one thing does not matter
when life is the matter
of fact that we all have to pray
for life is a luxury
Not a term of lifes misery
to be dreaded day after day
though slipping on edges
we're grasping pledges
of those who've passed away
today we pray and tomorrow this all goes away
Smiles broadly, Bravo to you bcoleman.............
thank you for your lovely contribution to my initial inspiration. You honor my words with the contribution of your own. Once again, sincerest thanks truly, M...........
Thank you
That is a beautiful poem and I couldn't help but speak about what you laid out
without a doubt that's what poetry is about. Honestly I wasn't trying to change or improve it but merely offer my feelings on your topic .
Do not think I believed such a thing...........
I was merely grateful and honored by your contribution. It was an unrivaled pleasure to read your words inspired in your own being to come from after reading my own. Sincerely, Melissa