I am incomplete;
I am coffee without cream.

Without you, I'm only me,
Just a part of a whole.
The puzzle isn't finished,
I am an abandoned goal.

Homework forgotten for TV,
I sit in ever hope,
That you will remember me,
And choose me over the remote.

I'm a painting never finished;
My completion is no rush.
I hope my artist's waiting,
and designing the right brush.

And though you can't agree,
You, sir, are my missing piece.
For I am incomplete;
I am coffee without cream.

"Mom and Dad, I'm sorry;
I just can't take it anymore.
If you're reading this,
You must have busted down the door.

For too long I have suffered,
And you have never known.
You never saw that I was slipping,
Never heard a single moan.

All those friends you thought I had,
They were never really there.
But there was another girl-
This one that truly cared.

You may not have noticed,
But this girl cared enough to see
That I was locked up in depression,
And she tried to set me free.

'Don't take yourself from me!"
She begged, shedding another tear.
I told her she was selfish
to ask me to stay here.

Several times, she saved my life,
But this time it was no use.
Tell her not to blame herself;
The world tied my noose.

Tell her that I'm sorry;
I know she'll make it on her own.
Tell her I said, despite the pain,
She's the best friend I've ever known.

I'm sick of gasping at the surface,
so finally, I'll drown.
I'm ready to embrace my death
When silence triumphs sound."

He wasn't supposed to know, wasn't supposed to find out

That he was what she was always crying about.

He said, "It really doesn't bother me, nothing has to end."

He said, "Things won't change and we can still be friends."



But the lies that he told were not as white as he had thought,

And he left her all alone with the darkness that she fought.

He never meant to hurt her, and it hadn't occurred,

Because no matter how much pain there was she never said a word.



At times, she finds that silence is more deafening than words.

She's screaming in her soul in octaves he has never heard.

He goes about his daily life, and just on a whim,

He says hello as he walks by, though she is nothing to him.



She smiles as he passes, but it's nothing more than a lie.

She's tired of living, but she doesn't want to die.

She goes about her daily life, and just on a whim,

She writes a little poem, and her mother calls it grim.



She lifts up onto the bus seat, and she closes her eyes.

The bus begins to roll as she silently cries.

She slips on her headphones and disappears into the sounds

Of a world in which his face is not the only one around.

Sometimes things go bump in the night,

Sometimes shadows dance.

Sometimes my soul writhes in fright,

And sleep has not a chance.



Sometimes my imagination runs free,

Sometimes my senses lie.

Sometimes I feel them after me,

When I am surely fine.



Sometimes I doubt I will be spared,

Sometimes it never ends.

Sometimes I feel alone and scared,

While I'm among good friends.



Sometimes my soul is screaming,

Sometimes I hear no reply.

Sometimes my heart is streaming,

Into a silent sky.



Sometimes I fall into the crack,

Sometimes it isn't fair.

Sometimes I glance behind my back,

But there is no one there.



Sometimes I feel them lurking there,

Sometimes I see a face.

Sometimes what I thought was clear,

Disappears without a trace.



Sometimes I stare straight into death,

Sometimes it stares into me.

Sometimes I take my final breath,

But then I've taken three.



Sometimes I hear them screeching,

Sometimes I see them glow.

Sometimes I just keep reaching,

For what is there, I know.



Sometimes I see my end,

Sometimes it was just a reflection.

Sometimes I seek my friend,

But I can not find the connection.



Sometimes I write this down,

Sometimes my pencil's shaking.

Sometimes I hear a sound,

That starts my sanity breaking.



Sometimes I know true terror,

Sometimes I stare into the void.

Sometimes I wonder where's my carer,

As my soul is just destroyed.



Sometimes I pray my heart out,

Sometimes I beg someone hears.

Sometimes I a battle through a bout,

And never feel him near.



Sometimes poems are not fiction,

Sometimes the story is true.

Sometimes a poet knows her diction,

And just wants to escape through you.

3 AM, I roll onto the floor;

No use trying to sleep anymore.

Anxiety shakes me to the core;

I walk to the bathroom, I lock the door.



The raven pecks at the window, so I let it in;

It tells me there's no escape from my sin.

It says that I've failed, and I'll fail again,

It says it never lasts when I try to repent...



I humor the raven, I listen to its lore;

I begin to think it's right, as my head grows sore.        

Will I ever different from who I was before?

Quoth the raven: "Nevermore".



Once upon a midnight dreary,

A midnight I have dreaded dearly,

I crawl to the sink, and I can't help fearing

The raven's words I hated hearing.



"I'm sorry!" I cry, "I want to do better!"

But how many times have I written those letters?

How can I ever pay? I'm the hopeless debtor;

And I can't always hide in the fabric of my sweater.



The raven tells me I'm a figurative *****;

I'm huddled in the cabinet, writing metaphors.

Will I ever have a mind free of blood and gore?

Quoth the raven: "Nevermore".



Why won't you leave me alone, you Godforsaken bird!?

To hell with you, and your pessimistic words!

I'm sick of being beaten, broken down, and disturbed;

You might be right, but you might be absurd.



I will try to change once more, as the night gives up its reign;

For a short while, I will return to being sane.

But the night will come again, as the sun can not remain,

And with it comes the raven, waiting at my window pane.



Why me!? Why me!? What does it bother me for?

I tried to do what's right! I can't take this anymore!

Will it ever stop peck, peck, pecking at my door!?

*Quoth the raven: "Nevermore".

You're the sun.

So beautifully bright that I have to stare, even though it hurts horribly.

I live in Antarctica, where you only light up my world half of the time and then leave me to suffocate in darkness for months on end.



You're a deer.

Unaware of me observing your adroitness from the dark depths of this brazen bracken which conceals me.

If I make any sort of sudden movement, I know you will sprint away into the trees because you're so afraid of letting anyone get close to you.



You're a puppetmaster.

Pulling at my oh-so-vulnerable heartstrings in the most musical way while creating the most fantastic and addictive art.

Your fingers are magic to me, and their slightest movement can either plunge me into endless despair or **** me up to the most heavenly of all cloud nines.



You're a siren.

Drawing me in with your sweet song only to ultimately unravel me.

You taunt me with colorful hints of false hope, making me wonder if you're really that cruel, or if you're merely  unstable.



You're a child.

So oblivious to the obvious, yet incredibly innocent.

You brighten my day with your silly antics and sweet gestures alike, but you're too enthralled in your own little world to ever notice.



You're Doctor Jekyll.

Always changing your face from friendly to arrogant and asinine, then right back again.

Sometimes I wonder how I could love someone like Mister Hyde, until you turn into the nice guy again and remind me.



You're a weaver.

Excruciatingly twisting the threads of me into the fabric of my being, leaving little streaks of sorrow and joy.

You have shaped this tapestry in the most painful and beautiful way, and without your unknowing influence, it would surely be unrecognizable from its current battered, but unique, condition.





You're a thorny rose I keep trying to pick.



Sending me away ******, bleary-eyed, and smelling sweet.



I wish you could understand how much I need to carry you home.

DEPRESSION IS BLACK AND WHITE

SOME COLOR WOULD BE FREAKING NICE

LIKE THE CHOCOLATE IN YOUR HAIR

OR THE CHESTNUT IN YOUR STARE

LIKE THE SOFT PINK OF YOUR SMILE

I'LL THINK OF THAT AND FEEL FINE FOR A WHILE

LIKE THE ALMOND OF YOUR SKIN

OR YOUR GREEN JACKET I WISH I WERE IN

THE WARM REDNESS OF YOUR HEART

YES THAT WOULD BE A LOVELY START

THE FIRE BURNING IN MY SOUL

IS A DULL GREY THAT'S GETTING OLD

DEPRESSION IS BLACK AND WHITE

SOME COLOR WOULD BE FREAKING NICE