Response to a Response

Prozacs in half, Zolofts in full.
Oh he who breaks is such a fool.
Pardon my french, i mean no harm
Prozac Prince calls for alarm.

I know this is lame. But don't we need a break from all the old fashioned way of dealing with the blues?
I like your line, though. "Break...The...Prozacs...In Half!"

I responded with this poem to a response to a post in poetry form in Mylot. Below is my reply to the discussion starter who seemed to reflect his depression in his poem:

Just keep on writing. It's good you are letting it all out. It does save us from falling off the edge. It keeps us sane. Darkness is not forever. After the night, morning breaks free. Joy will come prancing along. Open your eyes. Open your heart. Look at you inside. Beautiful being. Your mind is in a deadly place, but your heart is somewhere glorious. Sweet soul that you are. Pain is because you love. Death is because you fear. Embrace pain. Live.

Just Sharing

It seethes through souls, squeezes, cuts, chokes.
Teardrops become ink, into pen, then kisses paper.
Pain grips the poet, then sets free
The hand that writes with heart, oh! love-maker.

Ever appreciated pain after you have written a poem and set yourself free? Now i can exhale...

Wrote this three months ago, starting a discussion under Poetry in MyLot.com.

Sprinkling Thoughts

Spills from a spinning wheel
seemingly endless
splatters here and there
screams in my head...

Still trying to find calm amidst clutters,
clarity in confusion,
serenity within shock persisting to stay.
I search, wait, and pray.

My Fixes

Coffee and old fashion style of journal writing. The former is to energize my sick brain while the latter is a temporary replacement of a PC under repair.

March Seven Too Oh Oh Ate

My first birthday here...beginning of the end of me. I remember writing something for my Psychology 1 paper back in college about atrophy and entrophy: "We begin to die the moment we are born."

Whenever I tell my love story people always tell me it would be a good movie material. I just smile and shrug. My story is not some kind of a romantic comedy meant to entertain people. It is a true-to-life experience of the most classic of all agonies. I actually share my story for selfish reasons. I wanted to relieve myself of the sad parts, which comprise about 65 percent of the plot, comforting myself that it is all over and there is no point of grieving. Thus it is not really a comedy but a tragedy. A series of broken hearts, broken affairs, broken leg (accident caused by running after a boyfriend), broken promises, broken windows of a Mustang Firebird, broken hymen, and...well, everything in my twenty something single life seemed to have been broken. When i turned thirty, I thought i was the most tragic of all single woman in my town. So I kept re-telling my story, even to friends who amazingly still find it so interesting. Perhaps it is because some of them are in the story, or perhaps the show of amusement in their face is for the purpose of comforting me. I knew it was a tad bit pathetic, but i did it with class, well most of the time i guess - masking my sadness. I was sad because my story was all about the "six times i got engaged," and i was telling it while still unattached, recently disengaged (as if he was some sort of a rifle) from my latest and apparently last "ex-soon-to-be-husband."
In those times i managed to keep a Plan B: Book to replace a Boy-man. Other than dreams of having a happy family and world peace, i was also conceiving a book idea during that period. And i was mid-way into the labor of having it published. All the signs were there during writing - mood swings, cravings (for the presence of certain exes), nausea (travelling through time) and insomnia. I was also vomitting, considering the fact that my subject was about the life of a 30-something getting over one great love and searching for meaning and purpose in a sub-corporate world, one memo/fling/party after another. Only now did i realize that wasn't any form of literature after all. I would call it a flip-lit instead of a chick lit. Thank goodness it was almost published. A succesful abortion when the book was already in full-term-complete-with-cover design-intro-bibliography-period (imagine that) was all i needed in order to achieve my first dream: a happy family. I had to give up that book because of a sudden twist in my life. I got married. Finally. I did it.

Just filling a Sheet

I am loosing it again. Do i need to gulp down another cup of coffee just to get it back?
And later on sink in the pits of black, painfully bubbling the throbs caused by an anxiety attack?
I become happy for a moment of spilling mess and blood,
then for the rest of the day I am in darkness
thirsting for joy.