#depressionpoetry
A heart that is so scarred,
It no longer feels.
A mind that is so overwhelmed,
It no longer thinks.
Is this what I have become?
A mindless,
Expressionless,
Emotionless,
Girl?
Life feels dull
Not even black and white
just
mute.
No pain or hurt,
I have suppressed it so much
None of it exists to me
anymore.
I could careless
about anyone else
right now.
I would rather just float
through the scenes
of the rest of my life than
make an effort
to change what will
inevitably happen.
I want to throw a lot of it away.
Throw it into the wind
And not even watch
as the things i had once
worked hard for
disappear.
I don't give a ****
about anything
anymore.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
Pills and pills slide down my throat, it’s for my safety, I suppose. But maybe it isn’t, maybe pills and pills slide down my throat and it’s for their safety, for the people around me.
Because when pills and pills slide down my throat, they don’t have to see me suffer. But if pills and pills slide down my throat and it’s all for them, what does that mean for me? As for I will still suffer.
Even though pills and pills slide down my throat, I will still feel the consequences, the lack of energy, the dark thoughts. You know, they said that when pills and pills slide down my throat things would be better, feel better.
And even though pills and pills slide down my throat, I don’t feel better and things have certainly taken a turn for the worse. I didn’t feel so bad and things weren’t so terrible before pills— all those pills and pills sliding down my throat.
But if I take those pills and pills away, will I feel better or do I just need more of those pills and pills sliding down my throat? Messing with my body, more consequences every time. Oh those pills and pills sliding down my throat, supposed to make me better.
But what are they really for, those pills and pills sliding down my throat, cause they really don’t seem to do the job they have been assigned. So there they come, more pills and pills slide down my throat, just in the tiny sliver of hope that these will help, solve my problem.
So that I’ll eventually have less pills and pills sliding down my throat.
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 10:34 AM UTC
I choke my vape,
lungs burning, multitudes
of tears droning — bees,
hummingbirds, all their
beauty spilling nectar...
_I’ll never taste it._
If this is a song,
it’s an instrument playing
itself, strung out on instincts,
but struck without melody.
And still—
this feeling ******* stinks.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 7:33 AM UTC
_Sigh_! It comes like a train — an express line through
my thoughts, _no stops, no warnings._ Oh how
DEPRESSION clips at my heels, familiar as shadow,
unwelcome as memory. Defeated — like sunlight
pressed to branches too burdened to bloom. My heart
hangs in moss — heavy, strangled in the green silence
of old grief.
Tears lean like leafless trees, bowed in all directions,
yet rooted in a place with no direction — a forest dying
quietly, where even the familiar trails feel like ghost
roads I no longer recognize.
I feel short of worth — like coins counted in silence,
never enough to buy the currency of being loved.
I glow in daylight, but dusk takes its due —
and now I dim with every breath.
I try to speak, but end up forcing books down my throat,
pages crammed with words I never learned to say.
But you’ll never see me cry in public — I’m an island
left off every map, burying bottle messages even
I won’t recover.
I have so much hopeful words for others, but I’m
a stack of unread stories to myself; a pen that dries
before I can name the ache.
And somewhere inside —I find a red box with hidden
compartments, each one meant to hold something sacred.
But they echo when I open them — _soft, hollow_
reminders that even my soul has forgotten how
to fill its space.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
I don’t have a license to drive anyone crazy — but I do have a mind
that keeps itself driven. __Always on__. Dreams at any given. And
I’ve felt the kind of love sickness that lingers too long — where
obsession is the disease of craving for something that was never really
yours to begin with. Envy stays green, growing tall like something
proud. But even weeds grow healthy, and we still call them plants,
_right_?
I’ve been tied to other people’s hopes — roped in by their strong
faith. "_And I still try to believe._" But saying that out loud feels like lying
to my own mouth. So I daydream in the interest of peace, trying not
to wake the ghouls I’ve tucked under my thoughts. I’ve had people
toss my advice like a smooth stone in their hand; pretending it’s
weightless, like their hands aren’t made of sand — like shallowness
could ever carry any real depth. _But it just echoes the sea_.
I always notice the ones who aren’t really seen. __The unread__...
The Blue and Grey ticks. While others get their messages read and
ignored, I’m just the message never opened. Still _typing_, still _thinking_
of the right words. I’ve come to represent the depressed, the lost, the young — the ones really trying to figure this **** out.
__Pause__ yourself if you need to cuss, but I swear it’s not a curse to feel
like **** sometimes. It just means in that moment, you’re not feeling so clean. Not broken — _just not fitting the costume_.
Sometimes you just need one reason — __just one__ — to feel like
yourself again. Not a version of you tailored to fit in. And that’s why
it suits me better not to force anything. So yeah, I wear shorts to
church — because life is too short, and I don’t see the point in
dressing up pain to make it feel prettier. Especially when it’s always
some casual man speaking formal hopes, trying to iron your sadness
into something presentable. As if comfort should only come with a
collar.
But I’m not here for that. I’m just here trying to feel real —
and maybe make peace with the parts of me that still feel unseen.
Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 6:47 PM UTC
_Reflective tears_— but none fall.
Glass-stained eyes, holding back
a flood that forgot how to break.
The walls pit inward— tightening
like regret, closing in like the hole
in my heart.
Hurt me again— my mind almost
begs for it; not for the pain—but
for the proof I still feel.
Cracked knuckles answer what
cracked thoughts can't say.
A fractured mental frame
held together by restraint.
I want to cry, but as I reach for the
memory of it, the tears don’t come—
Just the hollow ache of forgetting
how to let go in that way.
_It be like that some days..._
Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 4:27 AM UTC
Pictures of my present— but none of them smile back.
Just me, talking to the man in the mirror,
_his eyes tired,
his silence loud._
He stands in the frame, wrapped in skins made of fear—
To stand tall beneath the titles they gave him;
_layered, worn,
worn down._
To call it strength when you pretend to be more than you are.
But no one asks what it costs to keep holding up the
_image they’ve
painted of you._
I want to stop performing, but giving up feels like giving in
to everything they already believe about me, there's never an
_account for the fallen man—
only fingers pointed,
as they count him out like a statistic._
I think about a demise so often it no longer shocks me.
It just waits—patiently— like something I’ve already
_shaken hands with,
gripped by time pressing on me._
Sometimes I feel like I’m boiling alive, my chest
cracking open with a salty crunch, like a crab
_in a sealed ***
no escape, just steam and pressure._
A slow, bitter truth: no one’s turning the heat down.
And all I can say is—
“Crap.”
_Not funny. Not light._
Just the word that stumbles out when your soul folds
in on itself and even pain doesn’t know
how to explain itself anymore.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 6:37 PM UTC
Cross my tears, lose my eyes—
these feelings fall as sadness starts to rise.
I lose my space to lose my mind; I cross
my hopes and pray they survive the night.
My joy feels too old; these skins
want to die young—tired, stretched thin
from wearing sorrow too long. I feel like
a blade that’s forgotten how to shine.
Rust gathers under my lips;
I’ve spoken too much to the voices
in my head— and all of them,
_all of them_ just want me dead.
Static feelings stuck in my sweater—
crying, even when it’s warm; cos I
don’t own a sweater, just a hoodie—
Something to cover my soul when I
feel like a ghost in daylight.
In my reflection, an invisible hand
gives me an invisible middle finger.
Even my mirror won’t look me in the eye.
These lips— they started off soft;
now they’re triggers, eager to flip
me off, shoot me down.
I am the despised poet— too hideous
even in my sweet dreams— this is
the real version of me: _unwritten,
unwanted, unmoved._
My soul’s literature is tired—
not of bleeding, but of no one
noticing it still bleeds.
And truth be told... I know the
purest colour of feeling blue.
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
Wet.
My sadness is like this damp cloth inside my rib cage that I can only remove if I claw my chest open.
I don't understand it. It's slimy and changes its shape as I walk and run.
Sometimes I don't feel its cold, damp wetness that much. And sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in it. It's like being cursed to wear perenially wet socks that you can never remove.
I can only imagine what warmth would feel like...the thought of my heart finally heating up in that glow is so delicious, it curls my toes automatically.
Or Maybe that dampness would start to rot my insides, consume me like quicksand...and when that moment comes I just hope my memory is kind enough to resign from service;)
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 3:50 PM UTC