I do not feel alive so much as when
I am Dedpoet. I do not suffer as my
Alter ego, but I do suffer as a simple
Living being. I do not feel alive as a
Christian, or even a Muslim, or at times
When I am a Pagan. If my name were
Edgar Allan Poe, I would still feel
The sufferings, but not so much alive.
Today I suffer from something deeper,
And being alive is part of the dilemma.

This suffering comes and has no explanation,
It is a sorrow so deep that I feel it was
With me alone in the womb. Where is the
Excitement of life? Where is the fulfilled
Feeling of completed goals? Is it because
I have nothing, so nothing comes
Full circle and becomes a reason?
My depression comes from everywhere,
Like four winds of sorrow spinning
A compass. If I was shot down and taken
From this place, my suffering would
Still be the same, if I came back
Reincarnated I would feel this abyss
Even only in a different body.

I look at the pain of a dying man,
He says goodbye and rights what he can
To those he wronged, But I can find
No redemptive cure for this emptied
Hole inside myself, I am simply in depression.

I always believed a higher power would
Give me a miracle cure for this suffering,
But one's belief is merely the precursor
To death and another life when the suffering
Would end in the divine promise, which is
To say we must be here to suffer and believe
The next life will he a better one. I look at the stars
And wonder about light and dark,
But I have no epiphany, today I am depressed,
Simply and utterly, no matter what happens,
Today is what I feel.