If it’s rainbows and unicorns,
sunshine and daises
laughter that makes your abs clench,
eyes water,
leaving you rolling on the floor,
gasping for air
to fill your deflated lungs…
Maybe it’s not depression.

If it’s days and nights
and nights and days
focusing on one error,
the disappointment in
your parents eyes,
they way they shake their heads
when you tell them you messed up.
It’s been over a month,
they all moved on,
but your still holding on,
analyzing the way you messed up,
until the next mistake comes along.
Maybe it’s depression.

If you’re strict
on the presentation of
your clothes,
images,
hiding the scars,
never wearing black
more than twice a week,
painting a smile
more days than not…
Maybe it’s depression.
 
If you've groveled
at the feet of the devil,
wrangled your sorrows,
bribing yourself that tomorrow,
you’ll get out of bed.
For the first time in days,
you’ll take the risk
of the world putting
too much weight on your shoulders…
It is depression.

If you've prayed
that the weight of it
won’t crush your bones,
mash your spirits,
turn you into a hollowed out cave
of limestone in the dirt.
Prayed that it won’t
blast away the last
of your ability to make it
through the night.
It is depression.

If you've wondered
whether you inherited this monster,
from your mother
or father
or did it manifest itself
inside your head?

Was it prepared
To make your life
living hell-
even more than imagined.
Enough
so that every molecule
every atom of your being
aches with sorrow
that cannot be placated.
Not with crying,
Not with laughter,
Not with enough sleep
to classify you as comatose.

 
Inexorable from the mind,
a demon with hands
constantly wrapped
around your neck,
ready to squeeze
at a moment’s notice.
Like demons,
Depression will keep its hold
until you crumble.

It's back. The thick black tendrils have woven their way through fresh mutilated skin. They've gripped bone and rooted themselves into a skeletal disaster. A permanent venoumas suit imbedded beneath the surface.

I sat on the floor, my face buried in my hands
Slowly I watched her shadow fade-
Never coming back.
As those words rang in my ears,
Deafening, refining-
Slowly but beautifully killing me.

Never coming back.
I slowly drone her voice piercing me all over
As if a pin kept pricking my body
With enough force to cause an eternal agony-
But not enough to ****,
To put me out of my misery.

My soul, slowly breaking-
Alive, but dead inside.
Her voice, deafening, beautiful-
Never coming back.

Poetry is the voice chattering in my head...
Never lets up... It is the voice for when I'm afraid...
Conjured up from deep looping thoughts...
Vented out through written words when the voice could not.
Necessity forged by the mind and heart.
Feelings and emotions that the core wouldn't carelessly discard.
Poetry is an outlet of sorts, tentatively I can afford.
In this realm, the pen be my sword.
Poetry is everything... Beauty spanning multiple universes...
All we do is try to have it harnessed and channelled into individual artful verses...


An outlet, escape, my hole in the wall,
where I can hide from the Hell in my heart.
You're learning to walk, I'm just trying to crawl
beneath the flak; as it once tore me apart.
I've got my demons, how about you?
Faceless legions strung through my soul;
with ink and paper, they often bleed through
From lines and verses, I regain some control.
So, if you're asking me what poetry means
I won't say much, but I'll show you my scars.
Words and rhymes slash stitches and seams,
but in my unraveling, I see shooting stars.


My escape from the world
A distraction from myself
Instead of a mark on my body
I place a mark upon paper
I watch the ink flow from the pen
Happy that it's black
And not red
It bleeds into the crinkled paper
Mapping out the story
The story of my life so far
I don't think
I just write
Emptying my mind
My messed up mind
But the mess will never truly be gone
Just temporary relief
This is my relief


Poetry doesn't mean something,
Poetry is telling somebody who knows the truth, a lie and making them believe you anyways.


The air I breathe, the life I lead, everything I believe, poetry
The truest, permanent written form, at its finest
Even if it doesn't rhyme, every word is still the dearest
It's my relief from anxiety, my calm when I'm panicking
It's a sight for sore eyes when I wake up with a hangover and a headache
The only way I can express myself, show my deepest heartache
The only happiness I have when I'm depressed, my only friend when I'm lonely
My poetry and yours, day in and day out, is like oxygen to me
I can't breathe without poetry


A poet sees rivers where veins
run, caged birds where hearts
beat against ribs, stellar explo-
sions in place of emotion.
To be a poet means to breathe
through your eyes, to find life
in the weeds suffocating your
lungs, to build an ocean
of metaphors and memories,
never knowing which is which.


Poetry is art in itself
It is our passion that is slowly dying out throughout humanity
Because humanity is slowly forgetting what makes us human
What we survive on and die for everyday
But not us poets...
Our poetry is the chain to what we are
What we fought for all these years
What we die for trying to protect
For poetry is our mortality
Poetry is our life.

if youre looking down on me
send me guidance
send me luck
send me love

thats all i desire

Sometimes

       All of this

           Sanity

   Just makes

            Me

       Go **Insane