From the moment I saw you
You and that personality
I knew independence was your heart song

Such noble aspirations
Your heart reaches so many,
and creates new havens

Be courageous, young angel
Embrace your forever
Fly to the promise
Fade not into never

Understand that every house
was given strings
And in the present, and future
continue to find those perfect melodies

Conquer the many dwellings and expand your business
Have your aura linger, and encourage forgiveness

As a man
A heterosexual man
I felt comfortable making the decision with her
To voluntarily share one of the most important tools for human flourishment
At 16
But as a man
A heterosexual man
I  get uncomfortable at the notion
Of telling my best friend of 10 years
That I love him at 21
Unless we're both in a drunken stupor
Or a tragedy permits such vernacular
Am I a real man?**
Do I stand rooted
In a twined thicket of contexuality
Or is my purpose on the course of infinity

Note to self,
Writing about slit wrists, night terrors, or a chain of mental illnesses,
is not poetry.
You're venting.
It's not wrong, but it's not poetry.
You aren't the first or the last to go through ****.
And even though knowing that doesn't make depression hurt any less,
don't try and create a pedestal out of your problems.
Use the platforms and devices that are helping you vent,
instead be the means to help find a solution.
Afterwards, put that progressive period
and those months of emotional cultivation into words.
That's poetry.
Understand your place in the human lineage.
Compare yourself to those before you.
Realize the audacity in calling yourself depressed.
Step up and step into your greatness.