I’m sick of the sads,
The come and go blues,
Tired of depression,
It’s becoming old news.

I’ve got the melancholy
Lodged deep in my bones.
It follows me everywhere,
So I hide all alone.

I’m exhausted of existence
That demands my great strength.
I’m out of ignition
And my apathy stretches at length.

This pattern starts at the beginning of October.
It stays through the winter,
I am like the weather,
Cold, gray, and bitter.

I’m sick of the sads,
These come and go blues,
The yearly cycle of moods,
I keep falling for the ruse.

I am sick of the sads,
Tired of depression,
Clinging to my sanity
Through its brutal oppression.

I am sick of the sads
That make it difficult to respire.
I pray for the end,
Lest my body simply expire.

The come and go blues
Have ruined my desire
For anything else.
I am consumed by my internal Hell’s fire.

I am sick of the sads,
These come and go blues.
By the time spring arrives,
I’ll be battered and bruised.

I’m sick of the sads.
Someone liberate me.
Send help on high horses,
Or sad is all I will be.

Brother, sister, my heart breaks for thee. Walking alone along this painful pathway, through a world engulfed in tragedy.
Torrential rain, endless pain, every day on this journey we are given.
Some never find hope, while others go emotionally broke.
Such anger and lust, flowing from so many of us.
A ragged road keeps pulling us along, no matter how many times we may fall.
Some do not get up at all.
Lost, alone, halfway insane.
Forgive us for falling, it is not our own doing.
It is this cold, cruel world, hurting and brooding.

My problem is I don't actually know what love is or how to properly "love" someone. I think I do... but love in my head is so ******* up.
Little things I saw throughout my life tell me love only hurts in the end...
-Nights without *** are nights filled with fighting
-Skipping over the "I love you" means they are lying
-Phones staying locked means their is someone else
How do I know these aren't true?
"Love" has only left people broken. Am I wrong?

Things that are "good" for me always end up hurting me... How is love any different?

Funny thing is I do love... I love people...

I allow myself to fight this terrifying thing in my brain for the hope that it won't hurt me like I have seen my entire life?
Will me loving leave me even more broken then me never loving or will I be shown love is a good thing?

Maybe I'll look past the little things. maybe the little things will show me how to properly love.

Or, am I just a coward?

I've never doubted my own version of love...
Maybe I guard myself to much from other peoples versions of love.

-Why is love so painful and confusing?
-Why do I always think they are lying to me?
-Why do I think I am a short-term escape from people?

Is this what "love" does to people?

Will I always be loved as I saw my parents love? Will I learn that my past has changed? Will I always be seen as the girl who didn't know what she was doing and love-able for a short time?

Is it sad I'm in my 20's and still want the fairytale ending?

I have so many questions.

It is nothing to fill the void,
with sweet things and a metallic aftertaste,
but always i feel it should be empty, so i
leave it. There is no point
in filling an emptying pit.

And i think my socks are wearing thin,
because what was yesterday a scab
is bitter and angry today, a
gaping hole on my heels that seems
to always be wrong place, wrong time.

It is nothing to stay quiet.
What i lack in words, my body screams for me, in
bruises and amnesia and wet
ears always primed and ready for a call that will never come.

I want to feel the world
with cuts on my fingers
and kisses on my wrist.

I want to know who I
am when the numbness fades.

She tried to protect the small child inside, did everything she could. Acted like a wall for his words to bounce against, accepted the blame for a behavior which was not her own. Kept her chin up and took on a smile in front of the child, so that the child would not be harmed. In order for this to be successful, no one could know the reason this child was being protected. She constantly stood behind a barrier who kept her from reaching out, all this for the child. It took her a long time to see that these barriers where broken down long ago, matter of fact they might never been there. The child was no longer a child, it was only her. Only her and no one else in reach.

I've been writing as an adolescent, as a teen filled
with adult lessons. Somewhat a mix of all my confessions,
and a touch of  my deepest depressions.
I use them all as a weapon, to **** away all thoughts
of suicide. My escape is in the words I write. The pictures I
try to describe, in all the lows between my little highs.

I question a lot about life—like why the talented famous
supposedly have to die so early. To have never aged poorly;
they only respect you now out of paying respect for your death.
To pretend they were your biggest fan, or closest friend.

Why publications ask me for fees they know I can never afford,
to invest in your royalties, and never gave a chance to your
dreams worth. I've battling all my addictions, trying to fill
myself with empty pieces. Seeing girls for only kisses,
considering getting paid for being involved with a mistress.
Just to afford to start up my business, to help those in their poverty.
But obviously that's not a possibility, but it doesn't stop me from wondering.

I've had my fill of gluttony, in pleasing my flesh.
In the thresh of cutting away my chances of being blessed.
Pretty am a mess—while putting on my face of the best, and
keeping a little pride on my chest. I still don't know how to dance,
but I pretty much prance in my room before I write a poem.
Switch between writing a little more or riding my way into
watching a little ****.

I don't trust my morals, if they're not on a placement of their
foundations. Ethics are kind of shaky, if you spirit is out of
concentration. I'm seeking for good relations, but hate to be basic.
Or basically falling over a girl who's just hungry for money chasing.
And it's so frustrating, when the right one you rightly push off.  
And now it's just awkward for you both. I'm not to good with my
feelings around pretty girls.

But that's me I guess,
writing late hours when I should be in bed.
Acting as I if don't really care—so oftentimes rare.
A habit rabbit, that my eyes are a black hare. Self destructive,  
self distracting kind of traits. I'm in dire straits, Lord please
save me from psychotic ways.

I hope this isn't where I die today. After having the usual
psychotic break.

When I hold the knife that causes my pain
I don't think I have a right to complain
Struggling to get myself out of the bed
I sometimes wish it was a grave instead
What am I made of, if the simplest thing eludes me
I'm drowning, drowning, in my insecurity
If all I can do is write the hours away
What's the point, waiting to see the next day
If it's all going to be the same, again
Listless, choking numbness consuming my brain
It doesn't make sense, I try but end up here
Am I not destined to live away from fear?
This life, it hurts, I don't know what to do
'Get help', I'm told. How, I haven't a clue.