D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: depression

Esmeralda On The Lake

There was an interview of sorts and I
was asked if I might not
be willing to do something
harder than anything I could possibly
imagine.
It was made clear to me that the
task I would undertake was difficult beyond
reckoning and so
I guess I can’t say I didn’t know what
I was signing on for
and in a spasm of hubris I said yes
I was willing to be born

something terrible is going to happen
something terrible is happening here
I can feel it in the marrow of my bones
I can feel it in my failing kidneys and my
larger than life liver and my inflamed
pancreas and in the structures of the
brain dedicated to production of
certain key neurotransmitters
and the ones awfully affected by their absence

the bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which are responsible for
the bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which take in sensory stimuli such as
pain and sound and so you won’t even
hear the bullet which destroys the
structures of the brain which failed to
function adequately such that
you might have foregone the
bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which might have wanted to keep
on but that fucking screaming and the
straw goes up the nose and the bottle
inverts and don’t worry your sister called an
ambulance so not tonight
not that you wanted it tonight

something terrible is going to happen

wake up to the fluorescent light like an atomic blast
briefly wish it really was one
ok so that happened, that was something that happened
hello world good morning here comes Dustin clawing back into consciousness you tried your
best but here I am still kicking like a
motherfuck

I wrote most of this poem a while ago
I was very unhappy.
I then proceeded to suffer a lot and fight
a lot and then I went ahead tonight and
finished the poem.
Bullet never came.
I’m approximating happier.

562 Wyoming Ave, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Mood Disorder, Pt. II

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
spied on it yet. Now I shall speak of love
as none have before. I shall speak of pain
reflected in the rear-view, drawing blood
from the neck to precipitate the rush,
the icy twinge at the back of the throat.
Now I shall show you pain beyond compare—
stare into my bloodshot eyes and I’ll stare
into yours and our irises blacken
muscles of the jawline clench and teeth crack.
Sunrise sunset several sudden years pass.
At some point, you left. Leaves died on the trees.
There was an equinox. The moon waned small.
It felt like the darkest night of the fall.
But it was four PM and sunny skies
belied the black intention.
Now I shall speak of hypothermia
now I shall speak of shock paddles and I
shall speak of cardio-pulmonary
resuscitation and ambulance rides
no one remembers. Psychiatric wards,
puzzled MDs, resilient nurses, doors
with knobs equipped with conical steel shrouds
to shrug off any permanent attempts
at checking out. There was another man
who told me late one night that he would die
by his own hand. Just a matter of time.
Maybe he did. I don’t recall his name.
I met his family. Nice enough people.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.
There was another—my roommate named Gabe.
His I remember. One evening we sang
a punk song, top of our lungs, down the hall.
A little brightness til they made us stop.
He hanged himself from a tree that next fall.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
conceived before. Nearly a decade’s passed.
I sit here with a pencil, yet again
residing in an institution and
I contemplate the swift passage of sand
right through the spindly hourglass of my hand.
It frequently feels like nothing has changed.
Until we wake up in a different state
three inches shorter, half a century gone
a couple kids with kids and rulered lawns
a liver-spotted visage, pitted, loose
arthritic fingers fumbling at the noose
they never tied. The end result belied
our best intentions. Maybe someone cried.
I did. I still do. Maybe always will.
I love you. I love you. I just have to.
When you’re decades gone, I hope I still do.
******* I knew you. Maybe you knew
me too. It’s hard to say. Can anyone
know anyone at all? I surely hope
perhaps against all hope that this is true.
And at least I know to whom I shall speak
in graphite silence. At least I know who
can see my screaming soul through time and space
and ghostly rest your head against my arm
and whisper back to me words I once knew
and I’ll fade.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all
but sometimes…

This Is The Longest Sentence You’re Likely To Read Today/This Too Shall Pass (Away)

Here’s one I wrote a while back and didn’t put up because, well, just read it and you’ll see why. I guess it’s kind of sad.

If all we are is the sum of the choices we make
when the fuck did I ever choose this was it
last night this morning last year my next life past
life this very instant? I can’t remember am I always choosing this
I can’t remember anything my hands shake almost
too hard to even type this if only I could have a strong
drink or five right now it takes that many anymore to
stave it off I guess that might be one reason why I
feel like I’m dying all the time the choices we
make why do we make them and at this
fleeting waystop en route from oblivion to oblivion will I
spend myself hammered or shaking so hard I had to locktite the
screws in my head forgetting being as it happens
compulsively telling friends and strangers alike
I am insane
can you read it from my face you can can’t you can’t you
tell I’m paranoid about my own paranoia and the shame
I should feel ashamed of this right have I earned the
right to suffer from mental illness yet have I earned the
right to write about it I don’t know but my own better judgment
tells me to bury this shit hide it tell no one because most people
just can’t understand
and christ do I wish I didn’t
but I disregard my better judgment as always
I’ve got to write it, it’s a compulsion
thankfully it does make me feel better about it all
but isn’t it already readily transparent I feel like everyone can see it
feel like my pores excrete some sort of pheromone that signals to everyone in my
immediate vicinity: this guy’s unhappy
did I forget to take the shirt off this morning that reads hey everyone I’m batshit nuts
and I’ve never been so scared in my life except for every other waking moment of
a thing I can’t even name or see or even adequately describe the
aching void the dread the lack that zero absolute beyond reckoning
heat death of consciousness of the self final reversion to
entropy as precedes so must succeed the threshold
singularity black beyond black silent beyond silence the
fear the fear you can’t escape no one will ever escape you’re
making that choice you will always make that choice you
crazy son of a bitch what are you doing to yourself
deep breath fold down visor open mirror look at self
you are ok you are ok you are ok ok
repeat it out loud with conviction you
will survive this day or at least this minute or at least this
instant knock wood it’s all in my head that’s true but
wasn’t geometry all in Euclid’s head at
one point isn’t everything all in our heads well
that’s a little misguided and reductive don’t you
think but the dread sure as shit feels real
is there such a phobia as fear of self
I guess that’s called depression comorbid
generalized anxiety disorder
terms terms
anyway break’s over back to work keep it together.

Stock Images

where upon this shore will we wash up
kill my loneliness and I’ll kill yours
there we’ll be til we tire and finally retire
and wake and wake and wake and there
we’ll be upon the shore
shipwrecked stranded on a highly populous island
stare if you’d like
aspirants alpha and omega
sign your name in his book and we’ll
wake up on the shore with
things to say
I was born in love
it was everything else that did it.

Sorry No Eggs Today (Hope)

and you try so hard or you
don’t try at all and you’d
think you’d learn but you don’t
you find new means by which to
derive hope or you use the old
ones or there are none and you
try really hard or you don’t
try at all and you beat on towards
the zero one hundred and fifty one
thousand and six hundred every
single day and it’s so terribly
hard to escape the preoccupation but
you try so hard and it’s what
you think about when you
scream in your sleep but you
don’t know what it is and you
think you’d learn but
you don’t and it all feels
like it’s getting darker and
darker and you try so hard but
it doesn’t work so you try
a different way and it all you
think you’d learn but
godot doesn’t show
nothing is won
nothing is learned
no one is saved

there’s just not enough time
there’s just no time
if only we had more time

but it didn’t not happen yet
and the poem isn’t over
especially when it is.

what I’m trying to say here is that
I’m very very afraid to die
and despite this fact it’s just so hard
to make meaning out of life
but it’s so important
so staggeringly important
that you try.

Gratuitous And Ill-Advised Exposure Of Vulnerability, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Mood Disorder

Well we can start off with an apology
I’m sorry about my manic depressive affections
you’ve found as others have before you that those
quirks you once enjoyed eventually irritate
and then enrage
and now you kind of know how I feel about them
a borderline love we had
a flash in the pan misfire oops
and it makes me angry and it makes me sad but
you’ve got to keep trying
otherwise well
and it can help sometimes to sit at a typewriter and
seek validation that way
and it can hurt sometimes too but hey habit’s habit
we do what we will do and what we’ve always done
now that’s a little fatalistic don’t you think
yeah well
and what else would I write about I wonder
but of course if I could I’d give all of these goddamned
words back if I could if I could
not understand them but you can’t do that there’s
no cure for it and I know that it makes me hard to
invest yourself in
or rather just very risky
not sure anyone’s ever gotten a return
depends on what qualifies as such
and the platen on this thing’s gotten many a beating as a result
poor thing all those little hammer blows they’ve gotta hurt
this piece of paper too must be having a bad time
oh well you are what you’re made for
dee bee devilliers the fatalist again
and what was he made for
different kinds of hammer blows I suppose
and then that’s the nice and terrible thing about time
you sure can get used to it
you sure can get used to it.

All Week Even

gonna sit here and try and
think of something clever to
write about but the
words don’t come for a change and so I
write about how the words won’t
come for a change and it’s just not very clever
since what do you say when you don’t think
since what do you think when you don’t feel
shame since if I could write something it’d
make me feel better
usually does
then again I’ve had two cups of coffee and though I am now
unemployed again and not especially happy I am no longer
hungover every goddamned waking moment and
though I don’t enjoy things very much at all
it turns out that I so very much would like to remain here
on this earth alive and all anyway
so I suppose that’s enough complaining for one afternoon
and there’s another halfway meta-poem by
remarkably unremarkable self-styled poet xx xxxxxxxxxx
thank you ladies yes I will be here all day.

If I Liked Me Better I Bet I Wouldn’t Write So Much

I want to be loved so bad
and I am
let it be enough
and I want to be liked so bad
and I am
let it be enough
I just don’t know why anyone would
let me be enough
let me really believe it
I don’t know why anyone would
and maybe I can be something more than confused
and maybe then my father won’t have to take some sunny day to
bury me
maybe we’re all gonna go to college and we’re
all gonna be doctors and lawyers and we’re
all gonna die real slow and by the time we
get to the heaven we dreamed about as kids we’re
all too busted up and broken to recognize it
and anyway I guess it isn’t really there so that’s a
silly line of reasoning
if you get to live long enough do you get to reimagine it
I hope I hope I really really hope I
really really hope so
thanks god that’s all I’ve got.

 

Personal note: things are much improving.

 

Some Things Are Important To Me And You’re One Of Them

is there any saving me
I hope so
long countdown to finding out what we are
what we always knew
which is fucked.

How To Go To Work/The Security Standards In Heaven Are Pretty Lax

you get drunk pass out you suffer from
menial problems you become
enraged at the broken dryer and
now you don’t have clothes to wear to work
you wear them anyway gotta have a job
your hands and feet tingle from a lack of
circulation this is a new development you
wonder from which poor decision this has most
probably stemmed
you drive in anyway
your shaky fingers stumble to punch in but you do and
you know from which poor decision exactly this
problem has stemmed
condition upgraded to functional
or downgraded as the case may be
you stand there and you have nothing to say
and hello good morning how are you
you say hello and good morning anyway and I am uh
good thanks how about you
it’s one of those days isn’t it
why yes it is except no one says it and you never say it can’t
show weakness now and even though you don’t know why and
even though you always are
and this was gonna be a happy poem but I guess
life isn’t that
but hell I ain’t dead yet
and when I am I’m gonna
stand up tall
take a good pull
draw down on Saint Peter
right there outside of paradise and
kick the fucking door in.