Suffering from depression is like:

biting your nails
when they're already too short

picking at your wounds,
and not allowing them to heal

living in your past,
because you're afraid of the future

feeling lonely,
yet being afraid
to burden other people
with your presence

wanting to get things done,
but being too unsure of yourself
to even try

you want to be happy,
but being sad is what you're most familiar with

you're afraid to live,
and afraid to die,
but you never know which option is worse

my thoughts are shaped like
atom bombs:
bearing faces of angry gods
tearing through the air above.

my thoughts are shaped like
revolver rounds:
their loud, resounding sounds
always make my heart pound.

my thoughts are shaped like
vile things:
describing them makes my eyes sting

so i won't anymore.

short moments
timelapses
blurred colours
and lines

feelings
just beyond
fingertips
tingling
along synapses

but amongst
all the uncertainty
the almosts and not quites

the smoky smell
of Russian Caravan Tea

and then there you are
laughing mouth open wide
cigarette in hand
grey ash on black clothes

and for a moment
it is as if you were never gone
never gone......away

Though held beneath a tyrants yoke
Loves bulging eyes are still free to choose
And as even in that grip they choke
The gift of sight they do not lose.
They can never stop the word or kiss
Love and language tell us this.
Neither can they own nor control
The dreams we have that breed the mind
And as those now gone still we miss
Our love and language will tell of this.

I don't let people touch me.
It's been so long I almost forgot.
Your fingers down my back,
My eyes roll into thought.
Pouting like a child
I can't have that all the time
Wish I could show you
how you stimulate my mind.
To be absent from the world,
Two bodies tangled,
I don't want it to ever end.

There's a reckless wind
whipping 'round the
frayed ends of my hair,
its exodus from the sides
of cars blurring by.

Jazz drummers cycle
flurries of taps and nods.
Twitching wrists for dollars,
their cornflower blue suits
rising with the street sound,
becoming a tent for sweat,
reaching for the dangling dark  
held up by clouds and the
screams of horns and the
chimes of chatter.

And here I lean, inside a corner
between an entrance and an exit.
My dreams are starting to
last as long as these cigarettes,
I probably spoke into the chainsmoke --
being pretentious and afraid
under the spill of streetlight.

And here I am, harmfully hoping
my friend comes back, that he
didn't suffer, that he is with god,
that god exists, that I grow into
something that would make
him proud, my parents proud,
make me proud.

All the pretty girls trot the walk,
like surreal thoughts with
white converses and high-waisted
jeans holding the eyes of the few
guys and girls going home alone.

There's no proper way to end this
besides for raw ***, real violence,
and more money.

My government only cares about me
once every four years.

My bank account controls me.

I can't buy anything unless
it wants to **** me or love me.