i have scratches on the sides of my head
from trying to rip my brain to shreds
i can’t elicit my feelings into truth
no matter how hard i try
and i feel trapped

my sadness is not a cathartic experience
it doesn’t inspire me
it is not beautiful

there is no fixing me
i’m not broken
i’m just ****** up

Depression has crept his way into my bones
And made a home
For rent he pays me in tears and self-loathing
(This is the richest I’ve been in months)
Each morning he sips coffee and reads sad poetry like it’s the daily news
He makes a mess of my body
He’s such a terrible guest
And I’m getting tired of his shenanigans
But he has nowhere else to go
Maybe soon, he will pack up a few things and take a vacation to some faraway place
But even if he does, he’ll be back shortly
Because I am his permanent residence,
And he is far too comfortable here
To ever move out.

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you

give common leeway \differences
accepted \ egos interrupt \
ten million opinions\
what title do I lose\
two people do\ behind closed doors\
shall it be the public's\
life \ get a room\ and
I don't try to look in the window\
or under any door\I try to look \
kind of around them\
into why\
I am not perfect\
I suspect but don't judge\
that neither are you\
tonight\ this second I sell\
pens under water\ and gills in the sky\
dresses to he men\
and swords to he shes\
and penises to whoever needs one\
to make themself feel better.

yesterday i asked
how the sunset looked
by you
and you replied that
it was "nothing special,
just blue"
and i couldn't help but wonder
if you've ever felt the same way
about me.

Sarah last wrote a poem
Around  New Year's Eve
I wonder where her poems are
They seem to have drifted
Very far
She has not been seen
Nor her words heard
Around the world
As they were
Last Year
I hope muteness is not
Her New Year's resolution
As a solution
To something
I wonder how is Sarah
The angry Poet
And how are the men
At the end of her pen

Sean Hunt
Jan 9, 2016 Windermere