I’ve felt happiness sink
In this tremor flesh
Sometimes I don’t think it’ll ever rise back up again

Pale figures stretch
Themselves apart at the wrist
Living transient
Beautiful deaths

I know the shift and the slide of my aches
More intimately than love
Or lust

I think when lovers collide
Bloom, then die
They depart redefined

Six trains have gone by since you fell asleep. I hope you heard them in your dreams. I wish I could see your face when you're asleep and your lips are the most innocent. I wish you would have stayed.

Trapped in this story.
Repeated history,
that's more misery than mystery.
Perhaps I'll leave this crap one day
Refuse to stay and go away,
but it wouldn't be long
before I'd collapse and relapses back into it all.
Enthralled in the fresh mesh,
across my rotten flesh.
Unable to even crawl,
as it sprawls around me
and develops me into something grotesque.
Against my best protest,
ignoring my distress,
until I become something I detest.
And all though this picturesque depiction of my depression
may seem extreme, like a bad dream
In reality it stems from a belief
that nothing ever gleams in darkness.
Regardless of what they say, darkness is artless.
Nothing more than a rotting carcass.
Harmless and heartless but not homeless,
because it's the same carcass in every ******* story in this never ending circle.
The only real consistency in the ever changing story.
Me,
internally rotting away for an eternity.
Trapped in this story.

The same old, same old
A story retold
with different settings each time
but ultimately identical
each story indistinguishable
so I'm skeptical
when you say this time will be different
because each time it's the same crime
anger and bitterness entwined
making a swine of you
and I'm pass the point of wanting to rewind
this story does not have a linear start to finish
But rather a never never ending circle
a pattern stuck on repeat
recycling itself on to its circular life
the external of the circle may change but the internal is still the same infernal circle.
immortal in its own way.
yesterday's sad melody,
with new ornamentation
but same motif throughout.
Ergo,
the same sorrow that swallows me up so I may wallow in this hollow feeling,
feasting like a beast on the self pity
that's festering away in the ruins of my broken mind like an unnatural disaster.
and I don't want a plaster to fix it
cause as soon as I put it on it'd only be ripped off again.
Useless and pointless against the repetition of unending pain
the same old, same old

I'd like to think you're waiting for me
I'd like to think you're missing me
I'd like to think one day you're coming back
I'd like to think you're thinking about me
I'd like to think you've always been there
I'd like to think you actually loved me

That's why I don't like to think
It keeps me away from reality
It keeps me away from you
It takes me away from myself
I'm really losing it

i do not write to please people
i write to escape my tragic reality
for i am living a life that is not my own
i am not myself
and i have not been for some while now
it is hard to remember
who you were before depression

i do not write to please people
i write to escape my own tragic reality
telling me others have it worse
will not make my pain go away
the ache i feel inside me is never ending

i do not write to please people
i write to escape my own tragic reality
repetition makes me feel
e m p t y

I think about you.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people think about you.

I care about you.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people care about you.

I enjoy spending time with you.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people enjoy spending time with you.

I look forward to interacting with you.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people look forward to interacting with you.

I feel at ease when I talk to you.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people feel at ease when they talk to you.

I find your beauty astonishing.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people find your beauty astonishing.

I think you'll lead a worthwhile life.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people think you'll lead a worthwhile life.

I can't help but feel that your existence is crucial to my own.
That's nothing special, though.
Plenty of people feel that your existence is crucial to their own.

Thus, my affinity for you isn't anything special.
Or, at least, that's what I like to tell myself.
Because that makes dealing with the truth
so much easier.