People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band" (which, incidentally, is Twenty One Pilots), to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!

Some of you sense this is a letter of defense
And in light of recent events,
I won’t bother with attempts to cover it up, to hide it
To put up a pretense
I ain’t tryin’ to act all misunderstood
I know I could and I should see the good in the love and the care people bear for their son or their friend or their brother so dear

I. But when people them say I don’t try hard enough
That I do what I want, that my hardships are bluff
I scream on the inside, or outside, sometimes
(and I promise, inside I ain’t screamin’ in rhymes)
You may have been in my situations at times
But were you ever me? And will you ever be?
Did you ever see
How I sit in my seat at school every day?
And the torture it is? Do you think that’s okay?
And if you did, (think while you’re reading this poem)
Have you ever seen the way I am at home?
Have you ever seen what I think in my head?
What I dream in my sleep?
How I feel in my bed?
Did you ever hear the things I have said
When no-one’s around?
What I love? What I dread?

II. Some people sincerely do try to relate
“How are you doing?” they ask. I’m just great.
They say I’m in pain. What does that even mean?
Being me isn’t hard, it’s quite simple and clean.
I’m lazy and selfish. I hate doing work.
I see responsibility as something to shirk.
Overall, I’m a ****, with a lot of strange quirks
I’m a horrible person with demons that lurk.
I’m in love with my demons. I like them. I do.
They make things exciting, and help with poems too.
So don’t pick a fight with ‘em, please stop inciting
I don’t need no help with a war I ain’t fighting

III. Lastly, please, pretty please, stop with the sighing
The crying, the prying, I feel like I’m dying
Or already dead, by the grief on your faces
Like I’m haunting your places, just filling up spaces
Please, when we talk about prices of tea
Don’t bring up my “issues”, don’t talk about me
I feel like whenever you’re looking at me
My hardships and failures are all that you see
I can’t handle all this disappointment around me
I didn’t choose my problems, I swear it — they found me

In short, my request is, please don’t judge and blame
But don’t pretend to understand, that’s almost the same
Thirdly, my issues are not what I’m made of
So please don’t bring up something that I’m afraid of

Thank you for helping, for being sincere,
Signed Yø-c, who loves you and knows that you care

It's been some time, a lengthy while
Since I've written poems freestyle
Rhymes, you see, are pretty things
But they're like birds with broken wings

But when freestyle starts feeling fake
And no longer relieves my ache
I take refuge in dear old rhyme
Till my music can truly chime

I. When death smells like sunshine
and graveyards like candy
I feel like a dagger
might just come in handy

II. This Dagger I have
It's made out of spite
It's silvery white
but now it looks red

This Dagger and I
We got into a fight
It killed me last night
and now I am dead

III. As life starts to fade
and dusk turns to night
As we end our charade
and we give up the fight
We say our goodbyes
and we gulp down a shot
We laugh at our lives
we untangle the knot
Then, as the string we are tied to does break
we fall to our death and we never awake

IV. Dark and alone in the cold and dry earth
Worms eat my flesh and devour my girth
Can it be that the dead in the grave get no rest?
Can it be that I died, and I still am depressed?

V. The ocean is rippling, the sun's shining brightly
Birds sing and chirp and the breeze whistles lightly
What a beautiful day to have breakfast in bed
What a beautiful day. It's just too bad I'm dead.

This morning I crossed the street.
Unthinking, I stepped off the sidewalk while the light was still red.
I was brought to my senses when I heard the screech of a car two feet away from me.
The driver yelled, “are you crazy?!”
He is right, I know. But I wonder,
Does the driver realize that for the next few hours I will be walking around with a lump in my throat, with tears just behind my eyes?
It is an immaturity, I know. But sometimes, hours later, I will ask myself, “why am I sad?”
And I will think back and remember the driver’s face, and how wrong I was.
Sometimes it’s someone I love.
They will say something with the best intentions, but I will cry when I get home, because I love them, and I value their opinion.
I wonder, is everyone as sensitive as I am?
Are we billions of vulnerable, hurt people, forced to pretend that nothing affects us?
I don’t know, but I’ll see y’all soon. The lump in my throat is getting thicker, and I’m going to the bathroom.

Many, many years ago, Life, Death, and Man lived harmoniously alongside each other. They ate, drank, and laughed together. Until one day, Death grew jealous of Man's abundant Joy, and so at night, while the others were asleep, Death murdered Man and robbed him of his joy. Of course, Death was banished from the Earth, and Life fell in love with Man's son. Man's son was very happy with Life, and soon they were inseparable.
One hot summer day, as the sun prepared to set, Life saw a dark figure approach. He set out toward it, and slowly realized it was Death, only now he was dressed in a black cloak.
"Why have you returned?" asked Life. "What do you desire?"
"I come a long way," Death replied. "I have been made King of Purgatory, and the demons serve me."
"Do you wish to rule over the Earth as well?" said Life angrily. "Do you ****** me as you did Man?"
"Certainly not!" Death affirmed. "I wish to make a simple deal."
"What do you propose?" Life asked suspiciously.
Death smiled. "Let us join forces. Together we shall rob man of Joy, I in the Heavens and you on the Earth, and we shall divide the loot between ourselves!"
Life agreed. That night when Man's son was asleep, Life took his Joy. When he awoke in the morning, he saw that his Joy was gone, and realized that Life had betrayed him. A broken man, he hung himself. Of course, Man had no more Joy in Death than he did in Life. Until today, Man is alone in his pain, haunted by Death and betrayed by Life.