The Visitors

The Visitors


a new wave of depression has crashed upon the shores of my mind,

this one’s enormity has forced me to surrender to it’s will,

succumbing to it’s demonic nature, I plead for the days,

when their visit was reasonable,

every night… I take my only two anecdotes,

one lying within the walls of a bottle,

while the other, the action of a caused physical pain,

both allow my escape from the angry train this misses no stops,

I do this to show the voice which chants it’s soliloquy while I sleep,

and which drops me to my palms while in the conscience,

that physical pain is not really pain at all,

it’s the pain of minutes and their 60 second friends,

wrenching through my eyes while carving throughout my stomach,

constantly eating at my organs with their sharp little mouths,

sucking away at any positive impulse spawned from my womb,

time is the cruelest thing mother nature ever schemed,

it slides around my floor at night,

squeezing me into the corners of my room,

breeding thoughts that turn nightmares into real images such as…

the sun, moon, people, and especially myself,

the color is drained out of everything,

the sunset replaced with a grey asthma,

there is no way to allude its course,

and when the storm is over,

you live for those next few moments to come,

the seldom moments of peace,

because you know that even while you have escaped briefly,

the next group of visitors, however they may appear,

will be arriving on another day with no notice or apparent reason



By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /