Sometimes I wonder if I
Have forsaken my words
For the sake of a rhyme.
If it so happens that my
Mixture of nouns and verbs
Don't keep in pleasant time
Anymore, then I only
Have myself to blame
(I hope you'll forgive me),
But I hope that you'll see
Something that feels the same
Between the words that should be
Written ten feet high in burning light
And, lest there should be any doubt,
Written over and over again
As if caught between madness and delight,
And a need to find an escape out
From her name, her name, her name, her name

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

The Same Table

We are all sitting
At the same table.
Some of us have more food,
                               more guns,
                               more oil,
                               more everything.
Some of us will laugh more,
                     will cry more,
                     will sigh more,
                     will feel more.
Some of us will die young,
                      will die old,
                      will die willingly,
                      will never live properly at all.
Some of us wear red,
                     wear blue,
                     wear black,
                     wear all the colours of the rainbow,
Some of us have light skin,
                     have dark skin,
                     have smooth skin
                     have scars criss-crossing our bodies,
But none of us
Sit high enough
          To look down
     On anyone.

"There's a time and a place" the gravedigger said,
"For humour, and this isn't it."
But the thought process currently stuck in my head
Is: "Maybe it is. Just a bit."

The businessmen said, in no uncertain tones,
That my silliness simply won't do,
And quickly went back to their laptops and phones,
But I still think the opposite's true.

There's no harm at all in increasing the stock
Of the cheerfulness in this cruel world,
And, often, my humour has been like a rock
While the pain inside me has unfurled.

I cannot explain why, when I start to cry,
That, sometimes, I laugh while I do.
In the depths of despair, where men want to die:
I can see the ridiculousness too.

So if I should be sad, and you see me laugh,
Just know I'm still dying inside,
And that I simply have to follow this path,
Or tears will flow out in a tide.

With pen in hand, I start to write
Whatever I am feeling,
But what I feel is utter *****;
I'm tired of self-healing.

But, pen in hand, I start to write,
With the hope something will change;
Letting it out may make things right,
Or a little less **** strange.

So, pen in hand, I start to write,
And perhaps it helps a bit.
Maybe tomorrow, or tonight,
I won't feel like total ****.

And, with pen in hand, I start to write
Of hate, and pain, and sorrow,
With the hopes that it may just might
Make life better tomorrow.

Now, with pen in hand, I start to write,
And I don't feel quite as bad,
So perhaps this life is worth the fight,
Even though it drives me mad.

With pen in hand, I start to write
Whatever I am feeling,
And what I felt was utter *****
That needed this self-healing.

The loneliness settles in
Like a blanket,
Gently obscuring all it touches,

Covering entire swathes
Of woulds and coulds,
Leaving only silhouettes

Of what might have been,
That slowly collapse
Under their own weight.

I find myself, sometimes, drifting off
Into vast seas of imagination,
Until somebody lets out a cough,
And destroys all of my creation.

I wonder if the same thing applies,
In terms of our reality;
If we're just the dreams, and hopes, and lies,
Of some cosmic entity.

And if we found out that that's true,
Would it really change a thing?
If what's true for me is not for you,
Is there nothing I can bring

To your fake life, and also mine,
That serves a higher purpose?
Perhaps our meaning's still divine,
Although it may seem worthless.

Imagine you are in a play,
Whose audience numbers one,
And you helped brighten up their day,
And shaped what they'd become.

Would it really seem like nothing?
Is that really not enough?
To know the joy that you could bring,
In a life that's often tough?

So I don't care if they're true or not;
All the memories we share.
I'm happy now with what I've got;
The capacity to care.

The Big Poetry Collection

https://www.facebook.com/groups/661273472100151/?ref=share

This poetry site used to mean
Quite a lot to me,
But recently all that I've seen
Is not what used to be.

Perhaps this site is dying,
Like the fragment of my soul,
Which has given up with trying
To love this unpoetic hole.

"Five–O-two, Bad gateway"
Is mostly what I read,
And the same **** poems every day
Appearing on my feed.

This used to be a lovely place
To connect and to explore,
But now I accept it's lost it's grace,
And this site's done for, for sure.

I hope in time they'll fix it,
And this site will be restored,
But, 'till then, I will not risk it;
So I'll leave on my own accord.

Don't remember me for what I ain't
When death decides to still my aching heart;
Don't picture me as if I were a saint,
Or treat me diff'rently when I depart.

Recall the good, but don't forget the bad,
And remember that you loved me all the same;
Remember that I sometimes drove you mad,
Or that –sometimes– I was the one to blame.

Don't make me out to be some perfect person,
What never made an error, great or small,
Or else you'll be rememberin' a version
Of me that never existed at all.

Happy birthday; now you're older,
And (since I am growing bolder)
May I ask you include me,
In your will financially?
Or (if your death is premature)
I'd like to ask that you be sure
To at least spend your money well;
Party hard, and raise some hell!
Now granted– I won't wish you ill,
Regardless of what's in your will,
But if the lord your soul doth take,
Can I still have some birthday cake?

"Do me a favour" you say, and so I do
But then one favour turns into two,
And two favours turns into three,
Until there isn't time for me.

"Do me a favour" I say, but you decline.
You say you simply have no time,
To return the favour that I gave,
"Do it yourself; I'm not your slave"

Doing a favour, with none returned
Should feel like nothing's being earned,
But only if you do not see,
I do them not for you, but me.

"Do me a favour" and, once again, I do,
And when one favour turns into two,
And you don't return a single one,
I'm laughing to myself; I've won!

If I could miss you any more I would,
But –truth is– that I also missed myself,
Far more than any other possibly could,
And I needed time to focus on my health.

If you could see inside my mind,
You'd understand why I could not have stayed,
To watch you fawn, and worry, and be kind,
And stay to watch my mind degrade.

Sometimes an absence may be for the best;
A step too far is far worse than a step delayed,
If that was wrong I feared to put it to the test;
A friendship missed is better than a friend betrayed.

There's a man who will not talk today
He's afraid to show his weakness.
He thinks no-one will understand
That his life is pain and bleakness.

All his life he's displayed strength
And he will not stop that now,
So he researched the noose's length
And the when, and where, and how.

He will not know the pain he's caused,
But it's what he feels himself;
The feeling of sheer helplessness
That destroys our mental health.

He thinks, in time, our wounds will heal
Or that, perhaps, we will not care
And that we'd all be better off
Without his presence there.

But in the last message he ever wrote,
Which caused us all to worry,
He acknowledged our own weakness with
The tender words; "I'm sorry".

Talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
Anxiety can **** itself.

It sneaks up like a ninja;
It knows the art of stealth,
But I have to teach it new things;
Like how to go and **** itself.

It bothers me with social stuff,
It screams about my wealth,
Until I can simply take no more,
And scream right back; "Go **** yourself!"

It's a nasty little demon!
It's a horrid little elf!
It's the thing I hate the most,
And it needs to go and **** itself.

Yes- talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health,
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
"Anxiety can **** itself!"

I just had a thought in my head-
"The art of the sonnet's not dead!
And to prove that it's true
I'll write one for you!"
...But then I wrote a limerick instead.

And I can control my feelings better now.
The shakes are still there of course-
General anxiety is another problem to deal with,
But, since it's winter,
I can pass it off as just being cold
When the small child holds my hand
And asks me "why are you doing that?"

The drugs are working,
And I can feel myself getting calmer by the day.
The things that bother me don't so much anymore,
And the medication flows through my bloodstream
And into my brain, slowly changing it's
Chemical make-up, and helping me become
A better person.

The drugs are working,
And this is my first attempt at a poem in months.
There's no rhyme or structure anymore,
And it's lacking a certain something that you're used to-
The metre is non-existent, and everything has
Descended into free verse.

The drugs are working,
And I can't help but wonder if that's a good thing or not-
Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is the case that I have simply forgot
The unbearable pain from which my poetry was born,
But still I miss it- those ups and downs which made me... me
And now, as I stare blindly at some old withered tree
I forget what poetry lies within, and only feel forlorn.

The drugs are working,
The old feelings have gone away
And, with them, a part of my soul,
Which could not stay another day,
In this unpoetic hole.

But the drugs are working...

Proprioception
Is the perception
Of your hand when it is out of view.
My proprioception
Is tuned to perfection
And I hope that the same's true for you!

Although I can't see
My hand behind me
I can give all my fingers a wiggle;
It may not seem much
Very different to touch,
But with touch someone lets out a giggle!

Perhaps I am an evil man,
Perhaps I am; I cannot tell;
I try to do the best I can,
But know I do not do it well.

Perhaps there is a space for me
In some unknown corner of hell,
Where hope reigns for eternity,
And nothing ever breaks its spell.

For hope is, when all's said and done,
The worst of things a man can suffer;
It keeps us traipsing, one by one,
From one disaster to another.

Perhaps it's best to just give up;
Immerse myself in a life of sin,
Drink good wine, and raise a cup
To my worst enemy- Nigel Finn.

These are the hands that will guide you to greatness,
These are the hands that will stay through the years,
These are the hands that will celebrate good times,
And these are the hands that will wipe away tears.

These are the hands that will love you forever;
When you are weak they will help you feel strong,
And, right now, since these hands are entwined together
These hands are precisely where they belong

This scrap piece of paper
Could have been a plane
But, instead, it's a poem by me;
Not burnt into vapour,
Folded like a crane,
Or anything else it could be.

This scrap piece of paper,
Now scrap more than ever,
Because I have added these words,
Which now start to taper,
Because I'm not clever
Enough to write of paper birds.

This scrap piece of paper
Has no more left to give
Apart from the next three forced lines;
It won't save the tapir,
Teach you how you should live,
Or help you pay old parking fines.

Take a break, because life is long
But nothing’s as bad as it seems,
When the reality around you’s all gone wrong
And the night just brings bad dreams.

As endless as life seems to be
Know nothing lasts forever
If not for you, there’d be no me
When my tomorrows turn to never

I don’t care who you are to me
If we’re strangers or we’re friends
My love’s for all humanity
And tomorrow never ends…

I sometimes take words that were first used by others
(I'm About to admit I'm a bit of a crook)
Re-hash and re-use them, and make my own covers-
Stealing little known lines from an eloquent book.

I've stolen from Shakespeare, yanked words off of Yeats,
And pilfered from Plato and Brown;
I've probably swiped stuff off all of the greats,
And many of zero renown.

There's more to be heard in the wise words of Wilde
Or took from a Tennyson line
Or the thinking out loud of an inquisitive child,
Than could spill forth from this pen of mine.

So if I've stolen from you, and perchance have offended,
(Yes- I'm about to steal Shakespeare again)
Just think but this, and all is mended;
Nothing original came from my pen.

Which means that, eventually, all that I've ever done
Will be lost in the shadows of time,
Skipped over, or lost, and simply outdone
By your works original shine.

Today has been hard;
There are bills to pay, and chores to do,
But I know when they're sorted through
I will still love you tomorrow.

This week has been difficult;
So much still remains undone,
And despite not having time for fun
I will still love you tomorrow.

The month has been taxing;
But there hasn't been a single day,
Where I haven't found the time to say
I will still love you tomorrow.

My life seems awful;
A constant, endless, pointless fight,
But one thing gets me through the night
*I will still love you tomorrow.

Is not equivalent to a broken leg.
Who came up with that analogy?
Someone who hasn't experienced either
Seems the only probability.

It's far more akin to a giant spasm,
Contorting your leg against your will,
And stopping it seems highly unatural,
And each doctor prescribes different pills.

Nobody has fluctuating broken legs,
Or fractured limbs that cause them to count
The precise number of steps they take,
And despair if it's the wrong amount,

Or healing bones that turn reality
Into hallucinatory nightmares,
Or make you stay awake all week,
And start berating chairs.

But the worst of that analogy
(It drives me quite insane!),
Is that broken legs are quick to heal,
And cause a lot less pain.

Breeze flowing gently;
The waterfall cascades down;
I feel at peace here.

I died yesterday, by my own hand,
And now here I am;
Standing like a ******* idiot in my kitchen,
And craving cornflakes.

The reasons why I did it seem hazy now;
All the buttoning and unbuttoning seemed to much,
Or else a love had left me,
And now I can't even grasp a bowl.
Stupid! That's what it is! Pure stupidity!
And I just want some ****** Crunchy Nut!

The bathrooms off-limits now;
It just makes me angry to see myself lying there,
No longer able to help anyone, least of all myself,
And that body didn't seem to care
About my cereal lust.

So here I am; staring at the cupboard,
But unable to open it,
and I don't even know if there's
any cereal left in the ****** thing anyway.
All those stupid myths about ghosts walking
Through walls was wrong apparently;
I'm just slowly fading away.

So here I am; craving cereal like a spoon.
The stupid spoon that I'm unable to grasp;
That seems to chortle, facelessly, at my attempts.
And being forever angry at that
Stupid idiot in the bathroom
For whom I feel nothing but contempt.

If I told you about the fifty mile trek I took,
with ice accumulating on my beard,
and shivering to sleep in the tiny hollow,
would you believe me?

What about the time they thought I was a terrorist
trying to assassinate the queen?
Or the time they took everything away from me;
my clothes, my hair, even my name?
Would you read it as fiction?

"That kind of thing doesn't really happen" you might say,
and I no longer care to argue my case anymore.
as you explain to me how, in a modern day society,
these kind of things things really work.

I wonder whether I should care,
as I nod dumbly to your every point,
telling me why you know, definitively,
that I am lying.

This is why my poetry shall refer only to emotions.
Nobody reads emotion as fiction;
you can feel it as they tug at your own-
A broken heart, a smile, a stray giggle.

Whether I made that journey is no business but my own,
but the cold I can describe perfectly;
Not biting, but stinging, and numb in every other sense.
The fear giving way to tears, which froze on my cheeks.

Besides, if this really is fiction, if I had really
made all of it up inside of my head,
would I still lie to you?
Of course I would.

No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

There's a storm in my teacup,
An ache in my head,
A plethora of words,
That are better unsaid.

There's a monster inside me,
That never stops speaking,
Though I try to control,
The havoc it's seeking.

You think I'm a good person,
But I do not agree,
My friend: you only judge me,
Based on what you can see.

People like you and me have grown used to dancing along,
To the raggedy tune of someone else's song.
We are able to dance, and smile, and duck, and roll, and weave,
While still clinging tightly to the things that we believe.
Sometimes we are led to believe we will lose it all; our heart, our soul, our very name,
Afraid they'll take away the us-ness of us; but still we play their game.

I wonder how many others know how to fake their hand?
Who keep the love caged up inside, to appear "normal" and bland?
Perhaps it is just us, perhaps just you, or, again, perhaps just me,
Or perhaps each individual just sees what they want to see.

Perhaps.

Perhaps...

Or perhaps, but...

I had a vision once; all the bad thoughts in the world were mine;
I ****** them in from everyone else, so that all the world felt fine,
And while all other folk were safe at rest, I cried and cried and cried,
And toddled down some empty street, slumped down a wall, and died,
Taking with me all the evil thoughts- the hate, the pain, the strife;
I believe it was the happiest I'd felt in all my life.

I tell you that to tell you this; all people's pain is pain to me,
And I would gladly give you happiness, in exchange for misery.
Don't keep those thoughts locked up inside, and hoard them for your own,
Or both you and I will surely die depressed- afraid- alone.

Imagination seems to be
A way to escape reality,
But sometimes- when we're done escaping-
We create the dreams our minds were making

If there were no edge,
Would you follow me in-
To oblivion?

Whenever I cry, a part of me rejoices;
A fragment which knows that to feel,
Keeps me grounded, makes things real,
And loves all my inner voices.

When I cry it is openly and proudly,
Though not in search for sympathy,
Or in hopes someone will comfort me,
And certainly never loudly.

When I cry it is for me, and me alone,
I have lost the gift of weeping once before,
And- having missed it- know that there is more,
To grieve once it has gone.

We who shuffle seamlessly along history's ****** banks,
And think our lives are pointful, filled up with meaning,
Yet believe prayers are unanswered, and demeaning,
But if they're not, could never offer thanks,
Can feel the horrors we have created just beneath our skin;
Writhing, contorting, causing trembles in our hands,
Over nothing so petty as what some god claims is sin,
And won't be washed clean by the hourglass's sands.

I am strongly convinced that, even if I can
(By some miracle), be absolved by God's forgiveness,
That He has absolutely no **** right to do this,
To steal that from me, and to change what I am.

I may be slightly merry
Or even pretty ******
You might even say I'm wellied
(I'm sure you get the jist!)
And I may now talk like thish-ish
And be completely off my ****
But I'll wish you a  merry Christmas
Because I love you guys to bits.

Nothing exists except atoms and space,
And everything else is opinion,
Yet we can't determine the time of their place,
And relative distance between 'em.

If I could understand,
With a wave of my hand,
All that is, and what lies in between,
I probably wouldn't,
For fear that I couldn't
Unsee what what I might think obscene.

What if, for example,
I could indeed sample
All knowledge there is to be known?
Would I be enlightened,
Or possibly frightened?
Depressed once all mystery's gone?

If nothing exists except atoms and space,
And if everything else is opinion,
Then surely opinion's mankind's saving grace;
The source of the beauty within 'em

"A man is a wolf to another man",
What utter nonsense! What a silly thing to say!
I see no wolf-like qualities in the hearts of men,
No shy, retiring qualities, or unerring loyalty,
And certainly haven't noticed that men ****
Only when absolutely necessary for survival.

Perhaps it is I who am being foolish though?
As I stare deep into the noble eyes of the wolf
And see no hint of malice, or greed,
Or religious and political ideologies,
Or desire for such petty things as man wants.

Yes, indeed! Surely the fault lies with me,
For I am human, and can't begin to understand
Such simple things that those wild beasts can
Seem to so effortlessly comprehend- compassion,
Love, respect, and sense of unity.

Men are not wolves in the eyes of other men. No,
It doesn't describe the potentially ruthless way
We act upon meeting a stranger of our own species.
I wish such accurate statements as this held sway;
Men are like men to other men- **** homini ****
Since we've proof that men will oft rip men to pieces.

Three words can make me feel quite grand
Or can fill me with dismay,
I really hope you understand,
I don't always feel that way.

Three words can make the difference,
Oh, I really wish you knew!
They always hold significance,
But they're not easy to do.

Three words! Three words! Stuck on repeat!
I don't know how to reply!
I want to run away, retreat,
Or curl up, cave in, and cry!

Three words I meet with every day
(I'm fairly sure you know 'em!),
I still never know what to say,
When I read; "Add a poem".

It's a plan in itself,
Not an open invitation for suggestions
To go on long walks, or dancing,
Or paint-balling, or take a drive
Down to the beach.

It doesn't mean I am free
To do one of the hundreds of tasks
You decide are more important,
In an attempt to fill my day
With a different kind of meaning.

Today I am doing nothing,
Because I have become lost,
In a world where doing something, anything
Is so expected of ourselves and each other
That simply doing nothing is viewed
As a waste of time.

We so rarely have opportunity
To have the conversations in our heads
That determine who we really are,
As we watch the moments floating past,
Lying under the stars.

Today I am doing nothing,
Please understand that what I desire,
Is silent doorbells, unknocked doors
And that the phone doesn't ring
As I curl up by the fire.

Facta non verba is what we need,
Verba non facta is all that's received,
If you want to be a part of what is achieved,
Put away your kind words and help spread some good deeds.

The thing that keeps people alive
Is often not some miracle cure
Comprised of pills, mysterious vials of liquid,
Or some new psychotherapeutic discovery,
But instead lies in the simple act
Of people not leaving.

Leaving leads to forgetting,
Forgetting leads to not caring,
And, not caring, you will lose
All emotional attachment to what is left.
I have been saved many times by people's not leaving.

I feel, however, it's only fair to note
That if you, my friend, were to leave,
I truly believe you'd be happy.
No need to gloss it over-
Just imagine, for your own sake,
The dreams you could fulfil,
The achievements you could make,
And the places you could go
     Without me.

If you were to leave
But should return before you've forgotten,
I'd like to console you by letting you know,
That I probably died in peace.
No need too dwell on what caused it-
What difference does it really make
If I succumb to depression, or cancer,
Or some unknown cause in my sleep?

I ask for no grand array of flowers at my funeral-
Such displays are best reserved for the living.
Perhaps some bluebells placed over my body though;
The perfect symbol; a small array of beauty,
Just enough to be noticed, achieving nothing in particular,
Heads hung low, no longer able to reach, as they once did, for the sky,
Epitomising the temporary fragility of life
With their easily stomped on, chewed up,
Beaten, and then forgotten little bodies;
They're an epitaph in their own right.

No other physical memorials are needed.
No headstone, no need for anything
To be named after me.
Much easier to cry whatever tears
Need to be cried at that point,
And leave.

If you find the emotional attachment doesn't fade,
And you really feel you need some thing,
Some physical presence to remind you of me,
Then for god's sake don't make it something
That dresses me up as some kind of plaster saint!
Instead choose something more meaningful and lasting
              Like a cardboard box,
                        Or the smell of paint.

"How am I feeling?- I think I'm fine,
Or at least not as bad as before
I think that I'm having a wonderful time,
Although I really can't be sure.

If I tell somebody I'm feeling OK
They smile and say; "Is that so?
What's made you feel better today?"
And I mumble; "I don't know."

It makes me question what I say,
And confuses me more and more.
I think that I'm having a wonderful day
Though I really can't be sure.

There is pressure in society
That judges how your looks should be
And when I hear a girl proclaim "I'm fat!"
As though there was something wrong with that,
Such thoughts, I tell you, just won't do
When the opposite is clearly true
Because with big girls there is more to love,
And they won't break with a playful shove.
And although I'm not one for body shaming,
And don't wish to sound like I'm complaining,
Thin girls simply lack the cellulite
To keep somebody warm at night,
Their bones protrude in awkward places
And they have gaunt, unhealthy faces
They regularly seem in a foul mood
(Which is probably caused caused by lack of food),
And you can't get anything to eat
Without them scowling at the treat,
That you, yourself, have chose to order,
While they dine on salad and water,
Until they scream "I've had enough!
You have no idea how tough
It is to keep this slender figure
And stop myself from getting bigger!"
As if it was somehow your fault
That they won't eat sugar or salt,
Or that they'll spend 3 hours at the gym
As a compromise for staying thin.
So while I'd love a girl however she looks
(As long as we like similar books,
And can talk for hours at a time,
Or not at all and still be fine)
There's very few (indeed, if any!
Although their numbers may be many),
Skinny girls I've ever met
That a big one hasn't beaten yet!
If you must lose weight I do implore
You know it's yourself you do it for
And while I must concede it doesn't matter,
To most if you're thinner or fatter,
No songwriter, I'll think you'll find
Wrote a song about a small behind
No artists brush strokes ever found
Joy in painting girls that were not round
And the best words found in poetry
Are about big girls it's plain to see
Like voluptuous, buxom, and well-rounded
With thin girls how would they have sounded?
Although I must- again- make haste to add
That no truly self-respecting lad
Would ever dream of judging you
By how you look, not what you do,
So if shedding pounds makes you feel great
Then go ahead and lose some weight,
But ignore what shallow fools may say,
As they'll just keep judging anyway,
Because the best people, you'll always find,
Will love you for what's in your mind.

Endorphins need to be released
In the quest for happiness and peace,
So if you love it let it go
And feel the joy it can bestow

I'd like to ask a question; what's your favourite quote?
Is it from a famous book, or is it something that you wrote?
Are they words from a close friend, or a speech by JFK?
My words have all dried up- can I have some of yours today?

It doesn't matter who said what, or if I'll understand
Why such words are important, if they're witty, humble, grand,
Or fill you up with hope when you're starting to feel low.
Perhaps I'll steal some inspiration, so please share- I'd love to know!
(I'm serious- leave your favourites in the comments box below.)

You know those people who tell you to "think more positively"? I'm sure you do- they're everywhere. Dispensing that useless piece of advice as if shutting your eyes to the reality around you leads to some sort of divine cosmic knowledge. **** those people!

Now I'm not saying there ISN'T anything to be positive about in bad situations. Most clouds DO have a silver lining. I'm one of those people who tends to laugh when injured, for example. Mostly because I visualise how funny it would be to laugh in that situation, and also because it takes away some of the pain. A mentally ill patient suddenly, and without warning, punched me in the face once (he explained later, over a game of chess, that he thought I was reading his mind. I replied that, if I had been reading his mind, I would have ducked), causing blood to stream from my nose, and me to erupt in raucous mirth-noises. It freaked the poor guy out so much that he ran away. Positive thinking definitely has it's benefits.

What I'm referring to is those people who, when your already feeling low, will use the actual phrase "think more positively", or send you stupidly cheerful messages, or try to distract you with happy stories, as if being depressed suddenly drops your intellect and attention span to that of a 3-year old child who's dropped an ice-cream, and by waving a shiny new toy in your face, you'll suddenly become distracted and within five minutes forget all about everything else- No. Stop treating me like I'm a ******* idiot.

Being depressed isn't a sign of having a broken mind, it's the sign of having a mind that's working differently. If we're going to classify all minds that work differently, or even just the ones we don't agree with, as being "broken" then we may as well just lobotomise everyone now and be done with it.

To put it in perspective- I've been waking up almost every morning for the past seven years feeling awful. Some days are worse than others, some days it's not as bad, and sometimes they last throughout the whole day as has been a more regular occurrence over the past three years since first moving to Bristol and confirming that life is, indeed, ****. Whilst there I dabbled in experimenting with psychedelics a fair bit, and one of the most common questions posed to me in the morning-after periods, when everyone was on a comedown, was "How can you still be so happy?".

Now, the real answer was one that I was always reluctant to say, because at those points I was surrounded by people who had also taken drugs the night before, and were now prone to emotional outbursts and hysteric behaviour, so I knew it was probably best just to leave them to their own devices whilst they expressed extreme anger or sadness over not being able to remember where they left their third most favourite pair of socks, or whatever.

Here's the answer now though- I'm not happy. I was never happy in the first place. I wake up every morning feeling something akin to this, I have done for years, and it doesn't really get much worse for me. The lack of energy and motivation, the feeling that no-one cares, the thoughts that tell me I'm useless and not as good as anyone else. They're new for you, but to me this is just a regular day. The only difference being that for me to encourage "positive thinking" at this point makes me fair game for some backlash, from the very people who use such phrases on me. I would find I had suddenly reversed roles. For a while I decided that I should use their own advice on them, because what advice, I reasoned, was more comforting and useful than our own. No such luck I'm afraid- and I now find myself accused of being uncaring, and misunderstanding of the problem. At this point am I not the normal one? No-one else seems to be able to deal with the basic, simple, foreseeable and expected problems presented to them, no-one else seems to have any level of control over their emotions apart from me. Am I not doing everything expected of me while everyone else "just gives up"? My thoughts are, once again, used as evidence against me, and I am designated as not being normal, of being strange, of not operating how a real person should.

At such points I have often wondered if I am viewing people as they must have once viewed me, before they trained me to accept the world as it is. "Why are you acting this way!?" I have often wanted often wanted to shout, "There's nothing wrong with you! It's all in your mind!". Alas, I know the hopelessness in such endeavours. I recognise the futility of using their own reason against them; they will not understand, and, even if they do, they will not listen. My only option is to go along with it, to be there for them should they need, or want, me for something, and wait for the next bad day to hit myself whereupon someone will undoubtedly try to make me "think more positively" about the situation.

To sum up; I am not happy. I have long since given up on the concept of being so. Some people will view this as a sad state of affairs, but I would argue against that; There is nothing sad about the predicament. I may not be happy, but I can be cheerful- a happy person is one who has no cares, whereas a cheerful person is one who has cares, but has learnt how to deal with them. I have no wish to appease anyone who would have me trek along the soul-destroying path back towards some unattainable happiness. I'd much rather be cheerful, thank you very much, so you can take your positivity and shove it where the sun doesn't shine, and- while you're doing that- try to stay positive.

This is not a poem,
                  Nor a song,
        Or even a piece of writing.
                                    
These are not
                         Even words
           That I am
Using.

For you to think otherwise implies a degree of madness
That I, the rational part of your mind,

                                                          ­      Cannot
                                                 Possibly
                                                        ­Comprehend.


                           I          am          only        here       to      say;

                                                  C­OME BACK!!!

                                                 We're missing you
                                                       My friend.

You call me broken, not knowing
That my hopelessness stems
From watching you lie to yourself
Over and over again.

What causes my suffering is
Having caught a glimpse of what is real,
And you, not understanding,
Trying to change the way I feel.

Sometimes I watch the others,
So comfortable in their skins
Of whatever form they've chosen,
Or miraculously been blessed with,
And remain a passive observer
Of the beauty before me.
I view their spirit animal forms,
Alongside the incarnations of gods,
and goddesses, and other holy beings,
Dance across their human flesh.

When viewed closely I can see
The smallest units of infinity
Struggling to expand, sometimes succeeding,
Other times dying and quickly vanishing,
To be suddenly replaced by elements
Of others, or the world around them.
They are cloaked in visions
My words can't comprehend,
Which I have heard some call yugen.

Other times I find myself
Wanting to join in with the excitement;
I flit between the disguises that
I have made for myself, in
An effort to seamlessly fit in
Unzipping one skin as discreetly as possible,
and hastily pulling on the next
As I rush from group to group,
Hoping nobody sees who lies within.

I have no concept of my own beauty.
Mirrors do nothing to help, being
designed to only reflect a physical presence.
I suppose that- to a piece of glass-
An eyebrow is just an eyebrow,
And lips are just lips.

If you could see beneath the reflections
Of your own selves I had tried to create,
I am afraid of what you might see
The bitterness that lies beneath.
My multiple façades sometimes breaks free,
And slowly breaks whoever is before me,
Causing mouths to form wide O's of horror,
Or else silences them completely.

This skin I inhabit is not my home-
I appreciate it's gloriousness and accept,
As I do in others, the meanest emotions it conceals,
And treat it as I would any other. I
Wish it no harm, and would be loath
To abandon it on some distant kerb
Like an unloved pet.

My Celtic forefathers had a word to describe this;
"Hiraeth"- a longing for a home that never was,
Or a place one can only recall in distant
Memories; unrecountable to those who
Never knew of its existence to begin with.

Maybe the skins I wear are part
Of my journey home; pupating like
A moth who longs to search for the light,
Yet lacking the wings to do so.
Perhaps they are only walls of my
Own devising, covering the window
To my own soul, that writhes inside
Like some contorted navel.

All I know is that the parts of you
I have stolen, or borrowed, or bought,
Or acquired through other means
Are the closest to home I have ever been,
Enabling me, in those brief moments,
To view the homes you keep within yourselves,
Until you reach out and touch me,
Causing me to run away, tail between legs,
Before my true self can be seen.