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M. 7/28/21 @ 11:02 p.m.
You matter.
Sometimes they yell,


And I listen,

"Listening is the polite thing to do."
Pensai Jan 22
Alone, cold,
Fighting a battle that began before our conception.
Cursed. The physical manifestation of ones fathers mistake.
Emotions removed, confiscated. No longer relevant.
Sympathy lost when love failed us.
Patience is the only retribution.
The endangered struggling black father.
On the verge of self destruction.
Restricted from the love of his own life force.
With no direction. No support.
Intense emotions personified by a series of precise phrases representing static progress and consistent negligence.
Our efforts are never enough.
Our words mean nothing.
Our concerns, suppressed.
Our worries, neglected.
Our respect, vaporized.
Our life. Devalued.
The endangered species

The struggling black father...
Depression can be detrimental to a Black Father determined to defy history. Men struggle. Men fail. Sometimes life deals us a ****** hand that takes time to play through. But society has no patience for a man in the process of bettering himself. Especially a father....
Clove Jan 8
I think about dying
At least once a day
It's gotten to the point
Where I crave death:
To the point where suicide
Doesn't seem so bad and selfish and cruel
But more like a solution to all my problems

Of course, I'd rather die
From natural causes
But the progression is way too slow
So, I'm trying to speed it up a little
By destroying my body in the best possible ways:

-Junk food
-And bad ******* hygiene
You're all welcome to my funeral. I'll be in a glass coffin so everyone can take turns watching my body rot. β™‘^β™‘
Mia Mehnaz Nov 2020
Suicide; society tells me it’s a ***** word

Blackens your tongue and brands you an

Outsider to your beloved community;

Tarnishes your dazzling reputation and

Takes a beautiful, cherished, short-lived, soul.

But why did society not raise me like the

Painstakingly adored roses amongst

Its garden of thorns; why can’t I be

That happy girl. Why have I been

Doused in fertiliser, a wretched ****

Amongst a garden of beauty, growing

Faster than lightning, roots of gnarly

Agony and shoots of grey, blurred hatred for

Every atom of my being- screams for the ****

Killer to embrace me by the neck, apply a-

Seductive dose of love-dripping pressure

And set this crow free; unchain my bruised wings

And I promise I will leave you be, I will never

Bring misery or misfortune again.

But suicide; is a ***** word, a cheek

Burning, soul smouldering, darkening

Shadow on the pretty plastic cases over our,

Mechanical hearts. Not for the great pain of

Losing a barely, blossomed flower- took one

Heavy dose of white-pain sunlight and

Wilted away into the black, bottomless soil.

Not for the gaping loss of a singular

Fertile crop in an endless year of draught and

Famine. Suicide, is not a tear-wrenching,

Palm-sweating word for the, heavy and huge hole

It leaves in society’s newly plastered walls-

But it is an unspeakable word for the pure

Shame. The surly shadow of unspeakable

Shame that it leaves like a, stain of red wine

On the pretty, sensible woman’s white blouse

Like a ****** tattoo on the arm of an infant.

We do not grieve their death. We grieve our pride,

Our bruised and bleeding pride at not preventing

The stench of failure as a race of people, in the death

Of one melancholy drowned person, we practically

Placed the boulders in their pockets and said drown.

And I am holding my breath; tight roping this

Misery that smothers me at sunrise, see I am

Permitted a feigned slumber of peace in the dead

Hours of night yet I awake to the,

Asphyxiation of pain, eyes bulging in terror of

What awaits me when I run out of time, oxygen fast-

Fading and the orange, pink of dawn lights a

Fire in the honey pools of my eyes- small, mocking fires

That sneer at my desperation to cease, at my plea for peace-

Tight, burning stabs that tingle in my throat and

I’m running low on air, on time, almost there-

Deliria, ecstasy, glee dripping from my limbs

And- the noose I fabricated in my non-

Functioning, disabled mind slips away, faster

Than I can catch it and refasten, and I am, cold

In my bedsheets once more. Welcomed again,

To the now bellowing daylight of, depression

Another flightless, fruitless day of carefully,

Hand-stitched smiles and sinfully pre-tuned

Laughter. The world tells me to stand on the

Pinnacle of misery with one broken leg and

If I dare fall, I am a branded shame on the surface

Of the earth, I am the centre of all failure in the

Universe so I, valiantly ride into no-mans-land,

A knight in shining armour except, I have no steel

And no bronze to, protect my heart from the cannon fire

Of pain, I have no shield to shelter me from the

Poison gas of self-hatred. But I am perfectly okay being

Defenceless in the brazen gunfire; I am still breathing,

The titanium arrows of misery protruding neatly from

My mangled limbs and my broken heart.

And that word, sombre and dark as ever

Flashes once in my head and I swat it away with

Deep-rooted disgust, and a dire hunger for such a desire.


Society tells me it’s a ***** word.
Possibly the first time i've ever written explicitly about this particular, raw and deeply personal topic.I always seem to skim stones and step over pebbles when integrating this into my poetry. But at 5:12am today I said, **** it, the world needs to hear this.
Cas Aug 2020
Resting your head on the side of the bathtub,
Half-hoping you won't fall asleep and slip under the water.

Walking into the street without looking both ways,
Half-hoping you won't be hit by a car or some other vehicle.

Running down the stairs, taking them two at a time,
Half-hoping you won't trip and fall all the way, all the way down.

Turning off the oven after cooking your dinner,
Half-hoping the gas hasn't leaked and isn't filling your entire house.

Leaving a candle lit for a moment as you leave the room,
Half-hoping it won't fall over and set your bookshelf ablaze.

Doing any number of seemingly monotonous chores,
And half-hoping your mind won't hope for the dreadful way it could

I'm half-hoping once again
Maruko San Jul 2020
Cutting my own arm
every other night
cause of what I am hearing
from the ones I trust
Lieke May 2020
Fill your lungs with air, they say
These black fireworks are getting closer
Crawl around, it's fun, they say
The slower I move, the deader the knot gets
You're dizzy, shadowed, they say
Apple after apple, only glowing poison

You'll see, you'll see
You'll want to someday
But all I want is out.
20 May, 2020
Kaia May 2020
I am so very extremely depressed
I want to sleep but I'm way too stressed
I try to talk with friends and with fam
But they seem to think that I don't give a ****
They call me lazy, heartless and dull
I've stopped eating food; they just think that I'm full
My arms are restless, I kick in the night
Can't someone tell me what I'm supposed to fight?
I wait for the next day, and the next, and the next
Waiting for when I finally breathe my last
And then it occurs to me; why hadn't I seen it?
I have the power to **** and destroy it
Tell me one reason that suicide is bad
Besides the fact that it'd drive others mad
I should be concerned with the rest, but I can't
Just let me be selfish and let me rant
I want to die and I want to die now
The only question left to consider is: how?
My head knows that it's unforgiving, but my heart wants it, so bad.
Christian C Apr 2020
A brain chemically imbalanced.

How could taking two little white pills every morning
slowly but surely resolve eight years of major depression
ameliorate symptoms that strangle the mind and spirit,
destroying self-worth, competency, basic functionality.

Despite a set-back of a month of unstable, barely restrained
suicidal thoughts, whole-heartedly consuming every minute
of conscious thought and shattering already severely fragmented
sleep, the only repose from the onslaught of endless thoughts
each one affirming deservance and supplying means to an end.

The vile depression, mind-warping, heart-marring, shape-shifting,
perspective-rearranging, adapting to every new environment,
clawing its nightmare-grip further into my chest day after day,
haunting me even in its remission: the depression was sinister.

Body and brain scarred and healing, starved synapses react,
a regiment of medicine, taxing-thought, and long-scarce love,
but indisputably vital: taking two little white pills every morning
slowly but surely resolves eight years of major depression.

A brain chemically balanced.
"At last"
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