Poets logo

Alone at Sea

Reflecting on my past struggles with depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts--their relationships with my ability to write.

By Ruben De EscapadoPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
I don't know where I am heading, but I know I am moving forward.

Two years ago,

I wrote daily drafts

Of my own demise.

A writer who can never

Get the words right.

Tongue-tied when saying goodbye

Needle knives resting under my spine.

Pricking my being.

Stabbing my will.

Will to power.

Will to live.

To die.

To cry.

To lie.

Lying in the face of reflections.

Reflections. Reflections. Reflections.



Showed me the colors—

Or how they’ve dimmed,

Under the thousands of scabs, I have picked.

Leaving me hard and dry

Where beautiful skin

Once felt the love…

Of family kisses

Of warm bed sheets

The Night of Christmas.

I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote--

Chasing words that left my heart--

Numbing my fingers and toes--

Numbing everything I thought I had known

Leaving me writing empty words--

I reach...

Just shy of the wordless feelings I am after.

They always lack weight.

No! it felt worse than that.

I sank deeper than that.

This is surface level,

let them drown the way you drowned.

That way, they can learn too.

It was worse than worse but also pleasantly bliss...

To not care.

Lose my mind a bit.

Stare down the deep end of the cliff.

Just to get pulled off the edge.

But now I have the words within my grasp

The words come to me so naturally

I can barely stop

Leaving me writing about

Grassy fields

And winds of leaves

And pale blue skies

That only--

Only on my good days, I can see.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

That the sky only showed when

I have meditated.

Slept well.

And returned to myself.

Returning home.

Back to the thoughts of deep knives

In the depths of my belly.

Spewing out words into the world

Green grass stained red

Got me out of fucking bed.

My imminent demise--

Somehow stopped my tears.

Upon my dry cheek,

Words began to flow...

My heart was clear like snow.

Clear like snow?

See what I mean!

The words just come and go

And go

And go and go

Going and gone.

Home runs in central park!

Without knowing, they return.

My head is a dry pen. No ink?

Just give it a shake

Suddenly there are words again

So I write and write and write

Hoping for bad days again.

Knowing that good ones are

Just around the bend.

I dive head first

Not knowing how shallow

This pool of infinity


Slamming keys and pressing send

Looking back on my broken introspection

Seeing where the words went wrong

I felt them in a moment

I felt them in a song.

I am going nowhere again...

And that is okay.

Because when I go

My passion for the words will always stay

So when I imagine the noose

Around my neck

Snapping! me.

Pulling me to my next show

Every time I think of anything embarrassing, really.

First dates

Fifth-grade birthdays

Saying, "I love you"

A soul of hate--

Saying, "I miss you"

Life is great--

If things go wrong, then write.

I can always rely on my neck tightening, again.

And again. And again.

Life infinitely trudging on.

My mind is sharp like a saw

A saw that blows my shoulder out

As I wonder how it went wrong

How it went wrong always feels

So obvious to the miserable man

Of nowhere land.

But what went right is what the good days

Try to show me.

Pale-blue me.

Reaching above the world.

Reaching above me

Reaching beyond my reach to see

What I can touch and see.

What I can teach and feel.

Sitting in seiza amongst my misery.

Sitting in seiza amongst my absurdity.

Sitting in seiza with

Broken memory.

Of shards of glass--

Of shards of past that

Cut my hands---

Cut my mind.

Giving me bloody ink.

Gives me plenty of material to work with.

So I slam the keys and repeat again,

Wonder when the hangman will knock again.

I slam my keys and call it prose

Prophetically writing proper praise

Prophetically philanthropizing

Apparently presenting

Presence as a present

Preserved and profound

Providing professionals

Proclamations of…

Endless times

Rises and sets

Where I find my will to live.

Just to misplace my happiness

As soon as I pick up my pen.

Again. Again. Again….....

artsocial commentary

About the Creator

Ruben De Escapado

Most know me as a poet sitting on a park bench in Central Park. Writing poetry for strangers. Before that I lived a life and learned a few things. Now I listen to what the world had to teach others. Believe in yourself and be honest. Okay.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights


There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.