you ask for a definition
but does anything have a definition?
the universe
for example
is always changing
definitions don't account for change
therefore
the universe is undefinable
there is no definition for me
because of that same reason
i am always changing
and definitions do not account for change
i am undefinable
seven billion people in the world
and no definitions
capable of describing them
and their change
we are, all of us
undefinable
i am the gay girl,
the depressed kid
the photographer
but that will change
(maybe not the gay part)
everything else, though-
i will be in a better place
eventually
i don't know where that place is
or how people will try to define me
but truly
i am as vast
and as beautiful
and as undefinable
as the universe
and everything in it
we are undefinable.

You tell me I'm one thing,
But really you're just afraid that I'm something
Undefinable.
You believe everyone is one or the other,
But whats the beauty in that?
Maybe one day I'm
'They'
The next I'm
'She'
Then the day after I'm
'He'
Don't suppress me for being
Everything.
Nothing.
And
Me.

Depression is hard to understand. The dictionary naively refers to it as, "feelings of severe despondency and dejection." But what does the dictionary know about depression? I think depression is more complicated than that. But I don't quite know what that consists of. I've been trying to figure it out for months now, and I just can't seem to understand. I don't know what depression is, but I can tell you what it's not.

Depression is not polite. Depression doesn't knock before he barges in. He just lets himself in, unannounced and unexpected, and leaves me gasping for what little air is left in the room.
Depression isn't clean. He doesn't tidy up after he makes a mess. He comes into my life like a hurricane, and leaves me to pick up the crumbled pieces of my rubbled life.
Depression isn't moral. He steals my happiness and kills my spirit. He doesn't abide by any common rules or laws, he makes his own rules and I have to play by them.
Depression isn't popular. The only "friends" he has are his victims. He drags me away from everyone who used to love me, and leaves me isolated in a cold, dark place.
Depression isn't respectful. He claws his way into the lives of so many genuine people and drives them to the brink of insanity. He has no regard for my thoughts or my feelings, stomping all over me until there's nothing decent left to salvage.
Depression isn't creative. He tells you everything as it is and makes you see all of the terrible things poisoning the world. He doesn't sugarcoat the truth, no matter how much it hurts, and he helped me clearly see even my smallest of flaws.
Depression isn't nice. He calls me ugly and tells me I'm worthless. The words he whispers ring in my ears: "**** yourself, **** yourself, **** yourself."

It's hard to define depression. It doesn't fit into a small box. I've practically driven myself crazy trying to figure out what it is and why this is happening to me. I don't understand depression, and no matter how hard I try to define it, I always fall short. I don't know if depression can ever be defined. While I try aimlessly to define the undefinable, depression ruthlessly takes advantage of me. I can try as much as I'd like, but I don't define depression, depression defines me.

Perfection is such an ugly concept.
Fortunately,
Beauty and flawlessness
are not synonyms.
Society twisted its definition though.
Into something hideous.
Something unattainable.
It's meaning has gotten tangled in the words
and lost in our worlds demented web of lies.
Pretty shouldn't have a size
and I'll be the first admit despite my shame
I'm guilty of thinking that
sometimes
before I catch myself
and remind myself
Beauty is not tangible
or even explainable
Beauty
one of the few words
that are not words
but concepts
and one of the few concepts
that are left undefinable.

If I wanted to take a little time,
If I wanted to share my inner mind,
If someone said it had to rhyme,
I got no time for that ****…

Paint for me, in your chosen words,
The lines are branches; the letters, birds.
Sing to me songs sublime; absurd,
Just don’t tell me it has to rhyme…

Settle the bitter, ancient scores,
Make the audience seek for more,
Make the shoes I stand in yours,
Do not make me repeat myself…

Write me a letter, I long to hear,
Your poet’s voice in my mental ear,
Till the world does shed a collective tear,

I think I’ve made myself perfectly-  uh…

Clear.

Within this thoughtless moment
and this wordless breath
I am

The soul starts off pure and humble,
unscathed from the thoughts of man.
But then we grow up and we begin to mold,
trying anything just to fit the plan.

But why must i be in a box
when i know i'm undefinable?
It scares people not to label me
they feel vulnerable and viable.

I'm not a punk i'm not a ****
i'm not anything that i do.
The only thing i really am
is undefinable to you.

And if that really scares you
and you have to label me,
then please choose not to focus on
that which doesn't define me.

I'm not the clubs i do
or even the music i choose to hear,
i'm not the guy i hooked up with last night
or the movie that brings me to tears.

What i am is much more deeper than that.
Its what i choose between whats right and wrong,
and maybe the special lyrics i like
from my very favorite song.

We're all a bunch of different things,
and experiences, and pain.
But to try to box us into categories
just seems downright insane.

i really just don't understand,
does it scare you i'm not like the rest?
not a sorority girl
not a hipster
not an activist at a protest.

one thing i will protest though
is smooshing me into a box.
because i really won't fit anywhere
i'm eternally, utterly lost.

but not the kind of lost you get
when you have somewhere to go
i'm the kind of lost thats wander
and i'm not really lost at all.