Rather suddenly he said:

"What if depression is some kind of middle class *******? Like, for people like us...novelists, dramatists- so we can still write somewhat interesting **** about ourselves even though we don't... I don't know, have some sufficiently dramatic background story? Have you ever figured how many kids in the world are born into armed conflicts? Or survived an encounter in a plastic ******* bag on their first birthday?

We can't write about that because we don't know jack **** about it. But it's really, really difficult to read something that's not in some way about you. Do you know what I mean? So you and I, the lucky ones, we have to write stories that we can read. Stories about people likes us: the lucky ones. And to make **** like that interesting we need depressed guys with psychiatrists.

So yeah... I'm probably not depressed. At the very least, perhaps desperate for a story."

We want to see ourselves
see ourselves
because we're afraid that nobody else will
ever want to capture us
in a camera flash- so we take our own pictures.

Click. Our front camera becomes
the one minute we had hoped our fathers had for us
when he wasn't busy on that same phone, speaking,
not clicking. Without us.

Or it becomes the one minute we had hoped
that our lovers would hold us
before they settled on to someone
with more likes,
more comments,
more friends,
more happiness...
than we could ever wait for.

We are impatient
like the frequency of data on our profiles:
here are our feelings now... here
are our feelings again, five minutes later,
performing for social algorithms
in place of photographers
besides ourselves who
see ourselves.

But our ignited pixels,
and overstuffed inboxes,
and masturbatory statuses,
and glittering timelines,
and social everything-

are popularity contests
that all of us are losing.

Yet still we want to see ourselves
see ourselves
even though we are afraid
of what we know is true...

...Because what difference
is a poem to a tweet
besides the number of characters
that we wish we had to populate our own stories?

Please let us be different,
just like everyone else.

We are all going to die.
We are all going to be forgotten.
It doesn't matter if your grave is six feet deep and three feet wide,
Or if your body was slung over the side,
of a boat in motion
from hands devoid of emotion
We all end up just the same.
Decayed and rotten.
Forgotten.
If that isn't Equality,
I don't know what is.

Empty, am I
The well
Has gone dry

Not empty,
You simply need to breathe
Maybe even cry

Black is the Silence
That fills me
Madness reigns

Not black, just hurt
You need to find words
To express the pains

And all is Lost
Hope has Flown

Never lost,
You've just grown

No light
Do I deserve

Brighten up,
Keep a smile in reserve..

Even the moonlight
runs and hides away

But my sunlight
Is forever here to stay

Scared, am I
of that forever night

Don't be scared,
Take my hand
Together we can fight

That empty place
that does devour
and holds me tight*

No, a special place
For only you and I
Where our smiles
Will shine bright

My son runs, wrapping arms around
my nebulous waist.

"l love you, Mom!"  He squeezes tighter,
as if letting go would be his black hole.

"I love you, too, " I squeeze back, absent mindedly.  (Where is the cream? I need coffee.)

"I love you more!" he breathes, without pause.
He gazes into my eyes,
searching my planets.

"Oh no, that can't be true," I retort.
I forget the coffee, his eyes are starlight.

"I love you to infinity!" he exclaims,
staring harder.

He wants to sail the Milky Way with me.

"Me too," I reply, and remember oxygen tanks.

I'm speaking in light years, and I hope the sound waves will catch up to him.

His face cracks into a million years of forever, before he lets go,
dancing across the universe of our livingroom,
his solar system intact.

At least for now.