He was the sun,
and I was the moon,
and our relationship,
was an eclipse.

She felt like
summers memories
in
late
October.

She wants to tear us to pieces for the audacity of it all.

**** us to hell, but still remain a Christian.

And the rant! Each day, her rage, a lance laced in bitterness.

And I can not speak to the contempt, she holds me in,

for some imagined slight, loving her to exhaustion, as she screams, I know,

You have something to do with this!

She is brilliant in that blind way of the highly dysfunctional.

She is bright colors on beautiful days, when she smiles,

the room to dreamy notes of yellow sun.

Some days she takes down, bleary notations in her diary.

Get the hell out of here...buy cat food...eat fruit.

Some days she writes long articles, to the institutions of oil,

sharply upbraiding & filled with wisdom.

Today she is a small branch, gnarled in a rib hug.

She has misplaced something that she believes was stolen.

She claims the devil spites her mind, but she is too smart to listen.

An old acquaintance drops by with cupcakes.

She opens the door and greets them, in perfect intelligence.

It's not pretty, and it's not kind.
It's the stack of laundry you've been meaning to fold,
that has now become an unyielding castle.
And depression is the impenetrable dragon guarding it against entry.

It's a feeling of happiness that drifts in and out of your life,
just long enough for you to think that you're not trapped,
even though your shackles are still tethered to an unbreakable prison.

It's seeing the dust trail gather along your treasures and your things,
knowing it won't physically go away until you do something about it,
but feeling overwhelmed by the sheer idea of sweeping it away.

This is depression.
It's not pretty, and it's not kind.
But it is me.

The sinking ship is
in my thoughts, but navigates
a new charted course.

A million different voices,
Ringing in my head,
Filling me with dread,
Telling me I’ll never be enough,
That I should just shut up.
It takes control of my body,
Gripping my throat until it’s hard to breath,
Making my voice shake until I can barely speak.
I feel the bubble forming in my chest.
I know what this is
And I want to cry.
Here it comes again,
My most cruel friend,  
That I fear I will take with me to the end.

I hear the darkness screaming my name.
I’ve been having some good days,
But it won’t let me get away,
Not that easily.

It stalks me down the street;
Hunting my joy,
Trying to scare it away.
It digs its claws into my legs,
And begs me to stay.
It howls and yelps,
Whimpering that it misses how we used to play.
The scary part is
I think I sometimes miss it too

Yelling at the seed,
won't make it a flower.
Yelling at the stem,
won't make it grow faster.
Yelling at the thorns,
won't make it tower.

Therefore;

Praising the rose,
won't make it any prouder.