Sadness
and regret is
overwhelming me.
luck,
left me down bad.
happiness,
deserted me as a child.
and depression?
it never left me.

but my mother did.

and I wonder why.

could it have been me?
maybe it has always been me.
stuck in a cycle of negativity,
I bring the clouds
and the thunderstorm follows.
When it rains,
it truly pours
and when I cry
my body begs for more.

I am addicted to the pain
that lives in my chest.
The one that has padded
And patted around.
Kneaded and kneaded,
this pain has made itself at home
and has become deaf to my pleading.
So as silence consumes me,
I wonder..
How long will life toy with me?
and when will death take its turn?

and will the people around me ever learn?
I doubt it.
How could they?
How could they learn
when I am the teacher
and I’m tired of teaching?
This subject,
I keep repeating,
is depression and how it’s eating
away
at
me.

you.
How could you be so oblivious
to my screams?
My screams have been screaming screams
so much
my throat is starting to bleed.
Instead of a voice,
blood trickles out
and down my mou-
ARM.
oh how I miss the feeling of blood tickling my arm
as gravity pulls it down,
as I would pull those scissors down.
That pain is the only thing that makes sense
and because of that,
it has me on the fence.
should I wait for my happiness to return?

or should I slit my wrists and wait for my body to burn?

It seems as though everything
is falling apart
and to pieces.
life is giving me reason after reason
after reason
why this should be my last season
here.
alive.

every day is a constant battle
of life and death
my mind trembles after each blow.
years have passed and the consequences
have turned my heart cold
but only to myself.
for some reason I cannot care what happens to me.
but honestly,
I feel like dying would set my soul free
because all it knows is torment.

but I mustn’t crack,
I cannot break.
Not for any other reason
than the fact
that if I falter
no one will understand.

No one will ever understand.
Pain isn’t just existence
when you day dream about death
and the ways one could inflict it on oneself.
The way I think
is sick.
horrid and morbid.
and yet I’m trying to change.
constantly looking for that light.
the one that I can never seem to grasp.
almost like it’s a figure of my imagination,
a mirage in the mind.

what awaits a darkened soul,
like mine?
will this life get better with time
or am I forced to suffer
until I’m nothing more than
slashed wrists
and a stomach full of pills
laying in my coffin bed?

I mean,
if I’m lucky to get one.