A cabinet,
Holding something,
Plates,
Trinkets,
Displaying or containing,
Sometimes the simplest things,
Can hold the most complexity.
Sometimes all that we see and all that we do
And all that we have done seems like a dream
An endless dream whether good or bad

If only I have a genious brain like Einstein
a brain of relativity and amazing creativity
a brain relative to time and space

Then I would know if everything was real,
and not just another incredible illusion
of here and now, of this place

And as I'm quietly thinking of this and I ponder
I imagine the poet Poe would laugh and say,
'Tis a dream and nothing more
M 1d
Everyone tells you it's simple
to get over a spill of depression.
That's what they think it is.
A
Spill,
but it's more than that.

A spill ruins what's around it,
the liquid often stains the
surface where the initial spill
happened, but emotions
such as depression can not
simply be summed up into
such a simple solution.

They tell you it can.
They tell you it'll get better.
They offer up the reprieve of a
swift conversation to make 'you'
feel better, but it's not entirely
the truth.

Such a conversation is offered up
at your expense.

They want to not feel neglectful.
A feeling of that magnitude would
weigh too heavily on their
conscious.

So, they tell you to get better.
They tell you another day
is a day to turn around, to smile,
to he thankful, but it's not that simple is it?

Should it be?
They tell me it should be,
but how can I believe them
when my body rejects such a sentiment.
My mind detests those words
because such a powerful mechanism
knows the truth.
It isn't a spill.

My body harbors depression,
letting it leak into my mind,
my thoughts, my actions, and
my knowledge.

It shatters away at the tethers
of happiness I have,
leaving them practically
bare and decrepit by the time
the process of joyful
malnutrition departs from
my system.

The system that they say
will get better.

They offer advice,
but no solution.
They act is if they know,
but have no experience.

Spills.
Can joy be considered a spill?
Can sorrow be considered a spill?
Can hate be considered a spill?

Spills are temporary.
They are overflowing,
lapping away at the sides of
the fixture holding it in.

Spills can be taken care of,
they can be forgotten, but
depression can not, and yet,
they treat it as if it's a simple
emotion, but it's far more complex.

It
Is
Not
A
Spill.
Farhan 2d
She left my world, why visit me in dreams?
Were my dreams more beautiful than my world?
Feelings true
Really into you
Ideally just us too
-Brooke Alison Ilene Anselment ©️®️
Smiles
are expressions.
They are also presentable
when it is real, true, and friendly.
Smiles can be fake, sham, or ungenuine.
Real or fake, smiles are simply appealing.
Here is a lame poem.... pyramid shaped. Honestly wasn't trying that hard :((
To know that you're in love with someone is to realize that you've showed them a part of you that no one else can see but them.
He sits low,
But he rides high.
Their heads turn
When he drives by.
He won't stop
Unless you're trying
To buy,

The Man with the silver rings.

When he gets a call,
He'll drive to your house,
"Whatever you need,
A gram to an ounce,
It takes a bit longer,
If you want a pound. "

He'll bring you anything...

The party began
When his backpack arrived;
And when it was emptied,
It withered and died,
It took him one phone call,
To get resupplied,

And back on the scene of things...

The door's always open,
In case he stops by,
With Haze or Rhino
Or Widow or Thai
Sometimes he'll bring presents,
He doesn't supply,

The Man with the silver rings.
One of my best friends is a former drug dealer who used to work like this every night.  I wrote this after his arrest.
Desperate claws towards the fading sunset, wishing for one last duet.

Pestering pleas towards the fading trees, withering leaves as I can never please.

Inevitable tears as I accept this is the end, as I see you float away from our riverbend.
Poem on the last desperate attempts we’ve all made to save a relationship.
Audrey Feb 16
My skin drips red like cranberry.
You close your eyes so you don't see
the pain and suffering, all of me.
My feelings steep like cup of tea.
This is about how people (sometimes) only choose to see the good while ignoring the bad. Line one references cutting and depression. Line two is about how it's hard for people on the outside that love the person to accept and acknowledge that they are not perfect and they have issues. The last part is about how this mindset leads the (depressed/struggling) person with nobody to talk to about it, ultimately isolating them. This poem is also about the struggle of others to accept one's insecurities as existent and as real issues.
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