My depression translates into artsy poetry.

Am I not meant for love?
Am I an exception to this compulsion?
Did I waste my chances when I had them?
Could I be obsessed with an obsession?

I am addicted to good writing.

Drop the books.
Walk away.
Forget about this world.
You will die either way.

It's 12:29.
I'm thinking about the moon.
It's one of those "Sufjan Stevens" nights.
His music always manages to perfectly translate my befuddling feelings and thoughts into rhythm and beat.
If I rest now I will miss out on what the night has to offer.

It's 1:07
I'm lying in bed.
I hear my mom on the phone with grandma.
They always manage to keep the conversation fresh and perpetual despite the 8,096 mile distance.
If I let my eyes close now morning and work will arrive faster.

It's 2:03
I give up on homework.
I open the laptop to watch Netflix.
I re-watch a show I've seen a dozen times.
If I escape to dreamland, this sense of knowing of what is to come will be stolen by the uncertainty of the subconscious.

It's 4:32
I'm filled with sadness.
I have procrastinated badly.
I abruptly jump out of bed and head downstairs to brew coffee.
If I go to sleep, I will regret it in the morning when I will face the consequences of my laziness and late night reasoning.

Words are worthless unless they're heard.

I crave achievement, but my body aches from failure.
From constant wounds to my frail skin, courage is beyond reach.
It is elusive, distant, away from my ***** hands.

I want to fulfill my ambitions, but my mind wavers from success.
From procrastination and the dark holes of depression, my conquest of dreams is fruitless.
It is shameful, humiliating, disappointing to my household.

I wish to express boundless love to the world, but my small mindedness has failed to grow beyond ignorance.
From lack of effort and unapparent care, I am a disgrace to my well wishers.
It is sad, dismal, sorry to see such a being alive.

The world has moved on and I am fixated on one **** detail. A blank stare that lasted maybe two seconds before he carried on with his work. The look was indescribable because the expression was void of emotion. This is incredibly ridiculous, but I am so horrifically bothered by it. That **** expression. This **** minor occurrence has somehow managed to ruin my day. But here's the thing - this is routine for me. I know myself too well. I will be incredibly self-conscious from now on in that space. So many things go past that man, but my stupid digressions didn't. I am a victim of over-analysis. I will patiently wait for the day my memory will finally let this go.