My scorched heart
Burned by uncertainty
And the winds of doubt
Leaves no remnant—
No evidence of life.

To begin anew—
My soul must be desolated:
Stripped bare
Back to the very foundation
Which yielded a forest
Of lonely—
Empty dismay.

Once shrouded by a canopy
Of ****** conviction—
Reduced to a charred field
of empty promises
Ready for rebirth
From the ashes of possibility.

These words I write
bleed
until completely drained
devoid of life
hoping that poetry
is penned
before I bleed out

Depression lies to you.
It tells you the only way to survive is to curl up in bed and hide from the world.
It tells you that what is "out there" is not worth fighting for.
It tells you that you are not worth fighting for.

Depression lies to you.
It tells you that you'll never be better.
It tells you nobody loves you, because how could they, when you can't even love yourself.
It tells you are unworthy of love...when is the last time you loved yourself?

Depression lies to you.
It tells you it will pass, to just be patient.
It tells you not to fear, but to be afraid of everything.
It tells you there is no use in fighting.

Depression lies to you.
It tells you to cry, but you don't know why.
It tells you to sleep when that's all you've done for days.
It tells you that everyone is better off without you.

Yes. Depression lies to you.

In the cool of night,
I hear you coming.
I know it's you
by the way your boots
pound on the hardwood floor.
I know it's you
by the silence
in between your footsteps
when my heart stops.
I know it's you
by the sour stench
of discomfort seeping
under my door.
I know it's you
because no matter where I hide,
you always find me.
In the cool of the night,
I hear you coming.
I know it's you.
It's always you.

Strip that smirk right off your face.
     "Don't judge your judgment," you teach.
My deep-set propensities you vow to replace;
     Omniscient—from on high you preach.

Share with me the secrets of life!
     I pray my ignorance you'll quell.
You know me deeper than the edge of this knife,
          And you claim to wear
          the same burns I bare:
     Sewn to this mantle, I earned in Hell.
Presumption is a color that suits you well.