J. Alfred melancholy

what is my "prime"
but the height of unawareness of myself,
making it seem the most happy time
before realizing those things not visible through these rose-colored glasses

"oh do not ask 'what is it?'
let us go and make our visit."

why shouldn't i speak of time
all poets speak of time and how rapidly it is passing
on a wing'ed chariot, according to andrew marvel
and so we make the most of it

"that is not what i meant at all,
that is not it at all."

there is a sadness in the realization
a sadness in these moments spent before the mirror
pinching and tweaking
then startled back in somber recognition
that i am wasting time in meaningless frustration

"i have measured out my life in coffee spoons."

to imagined a white-haired mother
an aging father
to take my place as an adult, calling the names of my parents
in that tone...it is
unbearable

"it is impossible to say just what i mean!"

how do we move forward
with such crippling reality sniffing about our door ways?
yet we seem to be unhindered
we still live furiously

"would it have been worthwhile..."

i remember the heightened sense of things
its prickling sensation, its spreading warmth that starts
from deep within
and i miss it like a friend

"full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse...at times indeed, almost ridiculous."

we gain, we grow but i feel the losses
i tell myself that there is joy in every stage
but the joy of youth taunts me and puts distance
between us

"i grow old ... i grow old."

ignorance is a comfortable armchair
innocence its footrest
i cannot pretend anymore to lounge there in
the warmth of the sun
i have discovered that it is evening and i cannot seem to believe a lie
a wish, perhaps

"i do not think that they will sing to me."

why do we write if not to give ourselves hope?
this aching absence in our chests
is the voice of wisdom
we only feel the emptiness because we were designed
to have it filled

"till human voices wake us, and we drown."