The End of the World
This is the end of the world, my love,
This is the belly of night,
A savage stillness of universe
To smother our short loan of light.
Do not take off your clothes, my love,
Do not tempt my desire;
The vanquished earth is tired of us,
She is tired of us, she is tired
And the vanishing stars are disinterested
In any affectionate play;
They look to the weighing of everything--
I tremble to see what we weigh.
--CE (written 1978)
I searched Google for "bipolar + poetry." After reviewing 230 web entries I realized that sites by bipolar poets are cliche'. Mine wasn't among them. But in searching for blogs, mine is currently at the top of the list only because a recent post included the two key words (July 8).
Forgive this blog, I beg you. The little discipline of writing in it each day gives me a brief respite from the devils in my head.
In my depression I am disgusted with and embarrassed by this blog. Why dance around in my psychic underwear? Feel free to throw tomatoes. If they become lodged in my shell like Kafka's cockroach, I'll ignore the stench of their decay. My soul smells worse.