I think
I've forgotten
What pleasure is.
Like the other day
I thought
"I should act
like a child today.
Child Brian had
much more joy
and fun-love."
But then I realized
I couldn't be
Child Brian, anymore,
Because I didn't have
any toys to play with.
Just the toys of today
My laptop -- for voyeurism and empty dreaming
Results unqualified and
Pictures painting pain.
My bottles and pipes -- for inflating my emptiness
A temporary filling feeling
That fleets and leaves me.
Waking up the next day
And wondering when
Why? What the hell does today mean?
But, pleasure, from the things I love
Is pretty much lost on me,
When I've stumbled upon the old cliche
"I've lost interest in the things that once brought me joy."
Maybe it's a lack of credit where "credits" due
Or maybe it's no longer have "friends" to run to
Or, could it be, because I'm actually attempting
Responsibility, that then bleeds me of anything.
The former coping mechanisms that once empowered me.
Fuck. Me.
This poem is no good
And my word is dirt
I've submitted to sadness
And laid with hurt.
Every old strategy has expired
And I'm forced to think twice
Do I fight through and try to
go with my new way, or
continue on in these cycles
of suffering and temporary euphoria?
Fuck. It.
It matters not
Because the one
purpose of this was
My reason to swear:
Today is the last day I wake up and accept my depression
… so there.