Tag Archives: pessimism

Mary and the Dark Mother

Posted in Poetry English by
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⚠SUICIDE WARNING: “‘Come lay with the Dark Mother, her coldness is the warmth you seek’—a poem making visible how depression seduces as a loving voice offering peace through death.”

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Come and visit the Dark Mother, Mary,

she is the only one who truly loves you

Her pure wisdom has always been there,

to you and only you, she will always be true

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Come embrace the Dark Mother, Mary,

in her lap, you are going to find lasting peace

Her love will make you whole once again,

it will mend each crack, it will join each piece

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Come and bow to the Dark Mother, Mary,

and she will tell you, it’s useless to go on

Her hand caressing your tired and bent head,

and she will whisper, ‘there is no true dawn’

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Come seek the Dark Mother’s counsel, Mary,

and she will differentiate love from courtesy

Her logic is immaculate and unquestionable,

when she tells you love is not real, but a fallacy

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Come hear the Dark Mother’s prophecy, Mary,

when she tells you, ‘you are doomed forever’

But don’t lose hope, all may seem grey and dark,

her solutions are always simple, never clever

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Come and listen to the Dark Mother, Mary,

when she tells you, it is your time to sleep

Her words are the writing on the wall,

when she tells you not to cry and weep

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Come lay with the dark mother, Mary,

her coldness is the very warmth you seek

Surrender yourself and take the final step,

just forget that you were once a freak

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Come and follow the Dark Mother, Mary,

be assured, she always knows the right way

Bringing sanity to this damn circus of chaos,

she’s the peaceful night at the end of your day

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Come do what the dark mother says, Mary,

sleep is just a small, harmless bullet away

Just please cross the threshold, Mary,

salvation is only just a steel’s kiss away

Questions that I often Ask Myself

Posted in Poetry English by
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Who am I? What am I? What is my existence? Where am I heading? What will become of me?—Five questions, no answers, only increasingly dark possibilities.

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Who am I,

when I laugh so loud, and also when I cry?

Am I a terrible figment of God’s imagination,

or perhaps, as I often tell myself, a mirthful lie?

Perhaps, I am what was meant to be discarded,

or maybe, to be ignored carelessly, or meant to die

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What am I,

when I beg and beseech, looking up to the sky?

Am I a chaotic and messy pile of junk and trash,

or perhaps a weird collection of impossible thoughts?

Perhaps, I am a useless and wasteful hand of tarot,

a card with no picture or symbol, only stains and dots

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What is my existence,

when I examine my state from some distance?

Is this just a never-ending nightmare, 

or perhaps just sand slipping through my grasp?

Perhaps, there is really nothing that I truly have,

and maybe the rope of hope is just a venomous asp

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Where am I heading,

with a resolve all strong, and my wings all spreading?

Am I diving headfirst into an unfathomable abyss,

or perhaps heading towards doom, with a loud roar?

Perhaps, I am driving down the road to hell,

while the shadow of doubt grows even more

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What will become of me,

will I ever know for sure, and will I ever see?

Will I always be searching for what I dream of,

or is the door just locked forever, and there is no key?

Perhaps, what I touch, will one day become gold,

but by then, all the light will be lost to the dark sea

Chronicles of a Pessimistic Optimist

Posted in Poetry English by
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Between hope and despair lies a grey hall filled with regret and guilt.

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I have always been a pessimist and also an optimist;

my life is a grey hall, filled with a rainbow mist

My past had been dark, and my future seemed so bright;

the night had been dead, but I said, long live the light

Yet my thoughts had been honest and so very true;

my mood had always been the darkest hue of blue

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I push open the window and scrutinize my past;

I recall everything clearly, the first and the last

I see so many butterflies riding the sunbeams;

some ugly and the others pretty - nightmares and dreams

The womb was very warm, and it was so secure;

but the shelter was a curse when the doom seemed sure

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My memories, when I open the old, musty book;

time had passed so fast, like a fast-flowing brook

Faces and images always passed by in a hurry;

my nostalgia was always chaos, even the chaos was blurry

Within this chaos, bitter conflict had always been a must;

all the treacheries of life and only a little bit of trust

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I have been the prophet of hope and a seer of visions;

but my regret is so bitter for all the bad decisions

The wounded birds, I always made them fly again;

but each time they left a parting gift - a cold pain

I cannot be a savior; it was just a false belief;

there was no pleasure in the pain, just cold, dark grief

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I treaded new paths, and also the dark forbidden places;

roaming in the spirit of adventure, leaving dark traces

Sin appeared to be the wisdom, and virtue seemed bland;

the sense of curiosity kept on burning and was so grand

Desire was the clear water, regret was the muddy silt;

but I always paid the price in the soiled coins of guilt

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Desires were sirens, they bewitched and seduced;

wishes were the flames, but to dust they were reduced

Hope always lived on, but she is a devious bitch;

and disappointment has been so abundant and rich

Wisdom came leisurely; it danced a slow waltz;

the pessimism was true; the optimism was always false

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Life is always a glass half-filled; it is quite right;

darkness always sighs with a promise so bright

Sorrows and joys in a long and tiring queue;

but more of the former than the latter, it’s also true

Within each light, resides a dark shadow;

perched on every tower of hope is a black crow