(tw; hypothermia, death)

Having depression is like being caught out in a blizzard.

At first, the cold seems like nothing.

You're all bundled up in a fluffy coat,
scarf wrapped around your face,
hands slipped into gloves and tucked under your arms.

But then the snow begins to fall,
and the temperature drops,
and it's like the chill is stripping you down, layer by layer,
even though all your layers are still there.

It gets colder, and you start to feel the effects of the chill,
the fierce winter seeping into your bones,
making it seem as though you only walked outside
in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt.

Your body begins to numb as the cold starts,
the weakest parts of you losing their feeling first.

Your nose,
your ears,
your cheeks and your face and your fingers,
all becoming completely numb,
as if they aren't there anymore.

And then your legs stiffen up,
and you have trouble walking,
even though you try so hard to keep moving,
because you know if you stop, you're doomed.

But you lose your ability to function,
the cold causing almost complete ****** paralysis,
and no matter how hard you try,
it's impossible to keep moving.

You fall to the ground,
curling into a ball in the snow,
trying to keep yourself warm,
but the cold is too much.

And as the hypothermia sets in,
your brain tricks you into thinking you're actually warm,
and you strip off the layers that were the only thing
keeping you alive.

And then it's over.

(tw; abandonment)

A feeling I never thought I'd feel,
but here I am, writing a poem about you

Do you think about me, too?

You're always on my mind,
even more than the ticking of the clock is
because you know I'm always really excited to get home
so I can talk to you without glancing up every second
to see if the teacher's looking

But at the same time,
thinking about you makes me think about
how scared I am of losing you

My number one fear has always been losing people,
and it's happened so many times, over and over again

It's a vicious cycle and losing you might just do me in.

I can't breathe without you,
but even when I'm with you,
my breathing is labored

Because how do I stay calm
when I'm hanging off of the edge of this cliff you dangled me over
(unintentionally, of course)

My heart is pounding in my chest,
no peace, no rest,
and as much as I love you,
the fear of losing you is something I'll never be able to overcome

The fear of dropping to my doom is something
I will never be able to forget

As much as you comfort me in my time of need,
that fear always sneaks back

Hiding under my bed like the boogeyman,
and I start to wonder, 'is it worth it?'

Yes. Yes, it is.

It will always be worth it.

Because the fear I feel of losing you is much less damaging
then the suffering I feel without you

Poets, the disciples of the modern world.

Followers of the great Almighty Lord of
alliteration and symbolism.

Their eccentric natures make them the pariahs of this world.

We cannot wrap our minds around
the words they artfully speak,
so we refuse to accept them.

Their eyes burn like fire in their skulls
as they stare you down from a podium.
In their hands, they hold their own hearts
which they have ripped out of their chests,
holding them out as if asking for you to accept it from them, wanting you to understand what every beat means.

Poets are misunderstood beings,
tortured creatures,
but they are far stronger than any others,
because they have the gall to speak their minds unforgivingly,
bare their most inner secrets and struggles
to an audience of strangers.

They are quick of tongue,
speaking faster than one's ear can hear,
but somehow they still manage to work themselves into your head with every word.

They're parasites,
infecting your mind and soul,
tugging at you and driving themselves into your brain
until their poems are all you think of.

But they are not evil parasites.

They hurt us and make us feel to save us.