Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

The Roof

Sitting on the roof where the tree hangs low, with my head in the leaves, waiting for the psilocybin to kick in, and when it does, the leaves are no longer leaves but a thousand hands instead, made of the most simple shade of green I’ve ever seen, exactly in the middle of what all green could potentially be, and there’re thousands of these hands all waving and loving me, the whooshing sound of the wind is now the roar of a great crowd, faceless but attached to the thousands of hands, which have now turned into millions and every single one of them is here because they want to see me, not because they grow from an immovable tree, but because each individual hand wants to be here on this day, just to see me, and it makes me happy, it makes me feel the warmth of the shine of the sun on my face, it makes me think that life will be okay, which is a good thing because lately I have been having some sad thoughts, and all the other people of the world aren’t even real people anymore, they are just weeds from Dad’s garden, and they are telling me I am depressed because I don’t eat right, or I don’t exercise enough, or I don’t put myself out there, and I can’t even remember all the other reasons the weed people have given me, but the millions of green hands aren’t saying anything, they are just happy to see me, and the sun is just happy to shine on me, and the roof is just happy not to cave in where I’m sitting, and it occurs to me that I don’t want to leave this spot, that I am willing to live here, past the sun and through the rain and into the dark, although that will change when the mushrooms wear off and the rain really does come and I remember how cold it can be, but that doesn’t bother me right now because I am going to let myself be caught up in this moment which I do not imagine will come again anytime soon.
NAMENate Wilkerson lives in Portland, Oregon where he is sad about no longer being a kid. He is an assistant editor for M Review, likes words that rhyme, and one day hopes to find a dinosaur bone. He has poems and stories elsewhere on the interwebs – some of which can be found here:

Categories: Mental Health, Poetry, Themed

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. Great write, love the imagery in this.

  2. This is a great, great monologue with an amazing flow that leads away from itself as it comes back to its own paths. Reminds me of Wordsworth’s good pieces in such a style. Thanks a bunch.

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