Like many teenagers, Wil suffered through bouts of depression, some of them severe. Upon reaching adulthood, he outgrew this, but always seemed to write another depressing poem whenever his life sank into a funk. This habit caused many of his earliest readers to conclude that he was still constantly depressed. Wil argued consistently that this wasn't the case; that he merely used poetry as a form of therapy, unloading his less-than-happy thoughts onto paper in verse form. The poems presented here represent the poems in this category, during both his early years and some later selections.
Depression To Insanity
Jan. 16, 1989 (age 16)
I have tred the well worn path of limitless mental toil,
I have stumbled under the heavy burden imposed by the cruel, tyrannical oppressors of my mind.
Although I have searched for many wearisome months,
There is no tangible, applicable answer that my soul can conceivably find.
There are so many people continually in my presence,
Who can’t seem to see my problem, except as a trifling abnormality,
I only wish they could see down deep in my troubled heart,
I wish they could see what is hidden inside; continually wounding and hurting me.
My Emotions have been torn, my heart has been broken,
It seems no matter where I go, or what I do,
I’m always hurting, and not another soul is aware,
There’s an eternal hollowness behind my eyes, that won’t go away
My throat is hoarse, and my brain confused;
There is a persisting disorder to my hair.
At the end of a long dark tunnel, I see a dim light, flickering,
Sometimes it fades entirely, sometimes it brightens intensely, filling me with hope.
In the darkness, I’m continually falling to the rocky ground, losing my way
I’m not sure what choice to make, which path to take; maybe I’ll never know
I keep expecting the horrid pressure to decrease, the hurting to cease,
But it never does, and I keep trudging,
continually hounded by my environment.
The cold specter of insanity encircles me on every side,
Offering release from the hurt and pain of this cruel world I’m living in.
Please God, if you are really there, save me from this mess,
Sometimes I feel you there, and sometimes
I just can’t perceive your presence,
Please give me a sign or speak to me in some way,
give me someone to understand
Just let me know you’re out there, or I might cease to be a man.
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MLASP (My Last Aspiration Seeking Pulverization)
July 6, 1990 (age 17)
I’m in a cellar above the ground
I see a rainbow but it’s not round
And all my dreams come crashing down
I’m in the present, but I feel the past
Will I ever find a love that will last?
My life is slow, but it’s gone too fast
At the playground, I’m gone down the slide
But it’s not a game, It’s not a ride
When I reach the end, I have died
There’s dirt in the sky, and stars in the ground
I will soon be lost, Yet once I was found
I once was free, but now I am bound
Out in the freezing sun, burning snow
My map doesn’t show which way to go.
What have I learned? I just don’t know
I feel so exposed, while I hide my heart
I control my whole self, yet just a part
And frozen blood waits to melt my heart
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Dead Leaves
Dec. 4, 1992 (age 20)
See the light of the sun pierce the glass
Head looking down as questions you ask
Knowing the Truth but never really accepting it as real
Plagued by pains and circumstances, hurts you can feel
Blinking an eye as a tear trickles out
Expressions of helplessness, perhaps doubt
Compassion is questioned, elusive love trickles away
Dry dead leaves drop to the ground; dark autumn day
Pleasure comes no longer from pleasurable things
An anthem of bondage from the soul now rings
Chilly winter breeze saps the fire from within
Sizzling coals are drowned by the flood of many sins
Reaching out a hand, feeling for something to hold
Finding only garbage, when searching for gold
Eyes looking up into empty air
Hoping, wishing answers were there
Not wanting to sound retreat, yet seeing only one course
Waiting for nothing, something to rescue by force
Unable to walk, to sit, to stand
Holding nothing within the hand
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Fragile World
Dec. 23, 1993 (age 21)
(This is the first of Wil's poems to ever be published; it was put into print in a poetry anthology in the late 1990s.)
Ours is a fragile world,
Our lives shiny glass trinkets, hanging from strings
Held carefully in unseen hands
Slightly shaking in the currents of air
Tinkling together, sometimes musically,
but most often being chipped away
until we are broken, and merciless
pointed shards clutter the floor.
Not to have the wind would be to
not hear the music, so no complaint is heard
But the untouched broken fragments
remain, giving witness to the aftermath
of the meeting of two hardened people.
Perhaps to hold the strings further apart
would be to avoid future collision, but
no one knows how hard the winds
of time will blow, or how close
the ornaments will ever come again.
Shall we sweep up the shattered, powdery
pieces that once were part of us, or
shall we let them lie?
Or just hope that Someone
lets go of the strings
from which we hang?
Ours is a fragile world.
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Untitled
Sept. 25, 1995 (age 23)
bleary eyes from a sleepless night
hand prints red from holding me tight
as I sigh
while I cry
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I Am Small
(originally untitled)
March 10, 1996 (age 23)
I am small, I am weak, cold, dirty, hungry, tired and hopeless
I am sick, I am poor, blind, ugly, ashamed, lost and broken
I am heartbroken
I am lonely
I’m in way over my head
I am rebellious
I am defiant
Angry, and selfish, and cruel, hateful, jealous
I am greedy and ungrateful; covetous.
I am a thief, a glutton, a drunkard, an adulterer
and a fornicator, I am a lawbreaker,
a hedonist, and I am proud.
I am a swine, I am filth,
I am shaking in my skin
I am scarred, I am hurting, I am afraid.
I am awake, I am hoping, I am looking up.
I am searching, I am trying, I am holding on
I am changing, I am moving. . . But where?
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. . . Cannot Borrow
Aug. 24, 1997 (age 24)
So many standing within sight of my sorrow
But from their busy pleasure I cannot borrow
Nameless faces and faceless masses all around
Unaware that this nameless soul is downward-bound
Falling, with my strength sapped and my whole body shaking
Out of the bad medicine I have been taking
Was that a light? No, just a spark from flames below
Vultures hovering nearby, waiting for the show
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Soul To Break
Sept. 5, 1999 (age 26)
(originally untitled; contained in letter to a childhood friend)
Doesn’t everyone know that the world is not just
What you want it to be And it’s not getting any younger
Neither are we Neither are you And we’re not getting
Any better are we But we live on
And, we strive, we push, and we give on
We give too much or not enough and we’re not
Satisfied
Act as if we’re happy and fill our lives with smiles
And never know what’s slipping behind the miles
How many have we traveled and how much farther
Do we have to go?
Because I’m tired and I want to slow down
I want to look back and say I didn’t waste it
But I don’t want anyone to say I didn’t taste it
Because I did
And I spit some of it out onto the cold hard earth
And buried it there
But I can never forget
And I don’t really want to
Will we remember it all? Will any of this ride with us into and past
The grave?
Or do the memories keep slipping between our fingers like so much sand
Why do we hold on to such fucked up pictures of the past?
Why are the fucked up memories the ones that last?
I know we’re supposed to learn
And improve and change and go on
I’m stuck I’m stuck I’m stuck
We’re fucked
No, not you and me
All of us are fucked
It’s just that sometimes we like it, and sometimes is gives us
Something to talk about and we feel
Better, having told someone, and maybe thinking that we’ve
Lived through worse than them, so we must be stronger
“Bragging rights,” they’re called
But if I lie down, do I really
Sleep?
Or do I visit another world
I hope so
Because the one I see there in my dreams seems to make much
More sense than this one
Now I sit me up to live
To the world my soul I give
If I die while I’m awake
I pray the world my soul to break
