"depressions" poems
When people ask if you're weird, or tell you,
or want to believe themselves strange,
eclectic, or odd.
It's vaguely disgusting to me,
cringeworthy in a mild degree.
We think we're so different,
but we are not.
The individualism of people
should be and is comparable
to the individualism of ants.
Who looks at the anthill and
sees something in particular,
something behaving specifically
"uniquely"
from every ant and every anthill?
Why do you believe in yourself?
I see this, as a conversation about
depression, and your partner
does not respect you
but instead wants to
tell you how they feel worse,
or have it worse, or "understand" more
about the affirmation or situation.
A person looking for individuality
through a lens of misery, anguish, and sadness,
is truly alone in their minds, and missing the
reality that these depressions exist without them.
The statement, "you are not alone" is an attack,
or an offense to these people, because it says
"you are not as unique as you think",
it strips them of their identity and individuality.
This is true of many ideologies and affirmations.
I quit individuality, this constricting sense
of holding everything of yourself in center,
to be a drop in the whole, something fluid.
If you split your affirmations from yourself,
you'd see we're all the same;
Affirmations are just currents in the ocean.
I look at myself; and people see a man,
a radical feminist, and sometimes a musician.
As labels, these each have their own presupposed notions,
[especially, "man" or "male" in the patriarchal gaze]
which hardly, if ever, are true,
but as affirmations, when I consent to using them,
these are no longer stereotypes that constrain me,
but similarities that I realize
I can embrace or shut out in others.
Affirmations do not make me more unique,
but similar to more people.
If I remove these affirmations to try and get to my "true" center,
my purest form of self, I see I am without meaning.
This is why I quit Individuality.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves.
There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder:
Domestic, and Mountain.
My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses
My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in.
My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer.
My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick)
My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent.
Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly.
There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder.
Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around.
My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln.
One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee.
My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs
The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans.
My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue.
My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity.
My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged.
My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions
My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws.
According to Zeus
As long as you leave it's bones whole,
My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
.
Snow drifts down
laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
The snow falls,
falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
all is still,
nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
dreaming,
of being kissed by the Sun.
© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
my darkest poems
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
a well of torments
soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
gorgeous
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling **** lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures
********
once
exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
putrefied
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils
because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment
while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas
out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
suicides
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us
humanity
muffled ticks
and splintered sticks
my poems let my demons out
yoo who its me
my name is spray snake z
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies
in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted
to be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold
bind it not
nor let it bind you*
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Beastly is this monster state yet many damsels cannot avoid
Some may call it disturbingly conflicting and become annoyed
Where rationality coexists with irrationality in an unstable realm
Pretty monster states navigate this journey as captains at the helm
Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states
No need to disguise your fury or depressions
Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states
This is just part of your amazing expressions
Wonder is this monster state since the inception of Adam and Eve
Men can only hope to be compassionate, steadfast and never peeved
One moment, pretty monster states can be loving and best friends
Next moment, challenging one’s good nature and spirit to extreme ends
Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states
No need to disguise your fury or depressions
Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states
This is just part of your amazing expressions
Frightful is this monster state like a suspenseful thriller or mystery
Only those who are not faint of heart can sleuth this case history
Where a profound will of character serves to stabilize one’s constitution
Bringing the monster state to an uneventful but amenable restitution
Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states
No need to disguise your fury or depressions
Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states
This is just part of your amazing expressions.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Introverted tendencies paint the scene
free to think only when locked away
cold to other people,
distant even when close
a lifetime spent close to the chest
hanging on to
an isolation flotation device
dragged to endless parties
to stand people watching
in the corner
family asks questions of depressions
and are met with "okays"
I would go out and play
but I have some things
in my own head
which I have to take care of first
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
if you're lost without direction
i will be one of maybe just a few
i can be your own compass
let me encompass you, when
direction is unknown my arms
are a place to move,
come in enjoy the warmth
for i will always face
north straight true
when your life is all recessions
and really all depressions too
let me be
your
compass
let me come encompass you
your Longitude and Latitude are
all thrown
in a muck
let me get you to a place,
where you wont feel so stuck
The tropic of cancer
Is not a place for one to linger
if you need to grab my hand
hold on like i'm your stringer
when you cant
gasp another
breathe and
there isn't
anything
you can do
come, and let me be your
compass, let me come
and encompass you
every sigh you relieve
will help find you on
the map, and every
time you squeeze
my hands, will help
you to relax
this world is full of problems, one
thing that im for sure, so lets forget all
the complacent and replace them with
something more, wipe away your
tears you wont need them where
we are going. if your lost ill be
your paddles we can find the
way together and just like
a little compass ill
be here forever
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
I put little stock in counseling, simply because it doesn’t work for
me. That’s reasonable. right?
That’s why I’m not
going back.
Because contrary to the initial irrational paranoid belief held by
not me, I was not
***** by anyone this last July, I am not
an altered boy.
Repression? Obsessions? Depressions?
You’re right, in a sense. I was not
***** by one man this last July, I was
***** by the whole church for the past 18 years.
I learned, or perhaps deduced, from Sunday School
that all *** is sin
that inanimate objects had a goodness or badness about them
that Satan was in my head (by this I was terrified)
that all my friends were going to Hell (by this I rebuked them and was never forgiven)
that its true: my parents would have gotten me ****** to death in biblical times
because they love me
that I could choose who I was attracted to (apparently by watching straight ****
that God needs money
that the Internet is of the devil >mfw intellectual open market
that I could only achieve ****** once in a lifetime >mfw I came
that God’s love is conditional
that electronics are a sin if they make noise and are inside a specific building
that all Muslims are terrorists
that I’m worthless because I’m a sinner
that I’m inherently evil.
And I still miss it sometimes.
I miss the taste of Christ’s ****
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
As poppies drip blood red petals
Among the fields where souls do roam
A silenced voice, away from home
Buried deep with twisted metals
Khaki men, are dead and rotting
As poppies drip blood red petals
Overgrown with rats and nettles
Men and women stood reflecting
A resting place to end the fight
In peaceful slumber they settle
As poppies drip blood red petals
Weathered cadavers all bleached white
Depressions fade, vista settles
Bodies and branches both stripped bare
Once passionate men, showed they care
As poppies drip blood red petals.
© 27/6/2012
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
You lied about my sweet weight,
And you lied about my arches,
You lied about your love for the depressions in my skin,
You faked that sincerity
Of course you lied, because how else
Could you make love to my demise?
You lied about your moon and my tides,
But you tread upon on my land,
Cheer as my salt beats my rocks into sand, I never flinched at your hand,
I never quaked at your voice,
But I should’ve,
I would’ve if I had known that you would run my rivers dry,
That you would lick your lips and sigh
You’re sick in that the only thing I hold dear,
You craved to hunt.
You rip into the throat of my wild and reckless stag,
Watch it bleed as it cranes to see by whose hand it falls,
As it breathes its last breath it catches sight of your thumb,
It knows, but consciously it forgets, because
It is with this abandon that I die for you daily,
And you **** me anyway.
I should’ve quaked at your voice,
Hearkened to the screaming that ripped away my choice,
You never loved my mountains, fountains of lies I threw back and back,
You lied about my ocean that you don’t care to explore,
It was critical and fatal,
You lied about my sweet weight and that I cannot forgive.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
**Fight to make your presence known
Fight to make something your own
Fight to stand up to the wrong
Fight to sing one more song
Fight to end up at the top
Fight to make bad **** stop
Fight because it’s what you’re told
Fight, be fierce, strong and bold
Fight for rights you think we need
Fight to stay awake and read
Fight to always give your all
Fight back every time you fall
Fight from looking in too deep
Fight depressions need for sleep
Fight for children in foster homes
Fight the fear you’ll die alone
Fight as if today’s your last
Fight to persevere your past
Fight to see your grandkids birth
Fight to the death for mother Earth
Fight back tears and wear a smile
Fight the urgency and stay awhile
Fight for fun or relieving stress
Fight for whatever you think is best
Fight because they struck you first
Fighting your best friends the worst
Fight to improve yourself bit by bit
Fight belifs that you'll fail at it
Fight for you and all you are
Fight the darkness; brilliant star
Fight thoughts that you’re not enough
Fight their hatred with undying love
Heidi Shavill 2013
**
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
~
In ode to all who succumb
through wayward passages
lined of scribble notes
dripping ink’s savagery,
staining cursive patterns
in Sylvia-like depressions
Jarred bells ring
down lost tunnels
around each dark corner…clang
from steeples we chase
and beds we lie
draped in sadness
and shapes of
poetic happenstance
Tear drop vinaigrette
spiced of leftover lifetimes
drizzled on leafy desperation
bids a tired farewell
before time collects
the deserved rewards
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
This silk is eager for damp skin.
It clings greedily to the peaks of
your topography, obscuring, like
fog, only the depressions.
I am a basin filled with fluid,
eager to capsize,
to spill out over this tile floor
like so much vanilla bath water.
At your heat, I boil.
I billow out from beneath
cream and sugar taffeta
with the whispered sigh of
softly hissing steam and
in tendrils, my tempestuous
mist and moisture form
settles lightly into your
crevices.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
.
And I stumble on across the barren land,
the mist, like a shroud, about me swirls,
chipped flint rocks assault my bare feet,
an endless quarry of slate grey, my world.
So the curtain of sadness and submission falls,
covering my mind with an opaque funeral drape,
the hazy images of the isolated and desolate,
forming the features of depressions landscape.
Vaguely felt, the invasion of another waits,
blind and innocent in a palace of real fear,
set free to roam in a strange arid topography,
desperate times pause for vision to be clear.
A stark scene viewed through teardrops frozen,
by ice winds of piercing calamity and despair,
of a place exclusive to the disaffected and lonely,
the last retreat for an exhausted mind to repair.
And this is my world where the haunted party,
leave me be with my cold mists and grey stone,
the frozen tear for a souvenir means everything,
my special gift, the feeling of being utterly alone.
© Pagan Paul (24/01/18)
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?
Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,
Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
Tonight I have no words.
I cannot grandly sweep my pen
In flowing arcs across the page,
Drawing little soft impressions
(little soft depressions)
That show how lovely pain can be.
I cannot play the great Creator
Who rips a vital pulsing mass
from out His chest,
And molds still-beating clay
With a sad old potter’s gentle hands
into a little melancholic harpist
who plucks the heartstrings perfectly.
No, I have no words that fit
Like others have made fit before,
composing language to fit all the inward lines and curves
(I once knew a few of her’s)
that twist and turn and come entwined,
(the twists and turns of long ago)
crying “Lacrimosa!” in some wee hour
as the breeze blows a lacy curtain back.
I am no Aeolian instrument
Sounding a sweet ethereal chord into the night.
I am the vacuous breath left behind in silence
When the musician’s music stops —
A tuneless referent —
An empty exclamation mark
Howling noiselessly in space,
Meaning nothing
And everything, all the same.
!
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
I am melting into a dream of tangerines;
Falling, passing the branches of citrus blossoms that once were.
I land on a rigid peel,
the brightest orange in the colored pencil set.
There are indents in the skin,
depressions, each belonging to a different story,
this tangerine has been through a lot.
**From a young bud,
to a ripe fruit,
it has grown.**
Do not make the mistake of calling it an orange, or a clementine,
it is not.
It is a tangerine.
Peeling it almost sounds like a symphony.
Inch by inch, the orchestral rhythm plays off,
until you are slicing it, accidentally rupturing its walls,
in that moment, it sounds like a little boy, who doesn’t quite understand why it’s encouraged to chew with your mouth closed.
A tangerine,
each segment of it looks like half a pair of healthy lungs,
pure, and fresh.
It is a surprise when you bite into it.
Realize, the prettiest things are not always the sweetest,
they can be a little tangy, a little sour.
The taste bouncing off the inside of your mouth like it is a trampoline.
Realize, it is a tangerine;
**from a young bud,
to a ripe fruit,
it has grown.**
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
Depression is mine to control
Mine alone in me is mine
As another's in them is theirs
So no two depressions can ever be the same
And yet like gold melded jade, sisters they are
Why should sister and sister be forced apart?
What do they fear?
Is it them? Is it us?
To finally admit that sisters are twins?
Of the exact same blood < in essence, in pain
Noble to only whose vains they run
but deeper than a true Suns lineage
In knowing that what is reflected as a mirror is exactly what's seen
But the fear of being the same is what drives them to shame
So what of this power that let eyes be mirrors
waiting for hope to appear?
Depression is < mind =to= control
Sep 30, 2022
Sep 30, 2022 at 4:04 AM UTC
A generation filled with hate,
fueled by our elders,
every decision lies in their hands.
The perpetrators of our demise,
is not ourselves.
It’s the world that’s been created for us,
what a surprise.
A generation filled with pain,
depressions an epidemic
that others don’t always understand.
A world created for competition not salvation,
or finding inner peace.
A generation filled with love,
society has taught us to suppress.
Who's the best? Who's the most powerful?
Redefining love to something people can barely express,
swimming in an ocean of fear;
fear of rejection,
fear of failure,
fear of ourselves.
A generation filled with so much,
That was always told:
"it’s not enough".
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
--------------------
When red ran from the sand.
From the depths, rose a creature quite old.
Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold
It anchored itself, and gave no expression
The strength of its shell, shook in depressions
Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection.
Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections.
The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name—
Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed.
--------------------
When red ran from his hand.
Trees are felled, and the humans displace:
Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space.
Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief—
The sounds of its guests, find little relief.
For its pride is valued, and cut for a price
Hard decisions made—it is life’s device.
Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh.
Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh.
---------------------
When red in hand and land.
Oceans to flood, new depths to behold
Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!”
She tires of our, meandering session;
Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions.
Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection!
As humans propel, in that direction…
In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame.
Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same!
---------------------
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
So many people walking by,
So dead, but still alive.
They're all in a rush to
Get in line.
Familiar faces, with their smiles
As blank as mine,
Open eyes and empty minds...
Stuck in their patterns, day and night,
With no release in sight,
They live and die inside their hives...
From nine to five they keep their
Masters satisfied;
White collared slaves who don't realize...
They drown their pain in
Beer and wine,
Illusions of good times.
Just leave your hopes and dreams
Behind...
Check your emotions,
Leave your happy at the door.
Drowning depressions while they're lying on the floor.
I see the sadness in their eyes,
The truth behind their lies.
See, they can't laugh,
and i can't cry...
They form the pieces of the same machine, and I?
I'm standing by,
Watching your world through
****** eyes...
Apr 12, 2023
Apr 12, 2023 at 10:49 AM UTC
expression of impressions in sand
revisions of depressions in land
I'm clenching the rope of hopes last strand
i'm grasping intensely as i can
everyone has there own disguise
truth realized through pure eyes
in human blood they wash there hands
You carry your fire and brimstone inside
expression of impressions in sand
revisions of depressions in land
you see the blood on the helping hand
I am longing to find this feeling so grand
I would like to try to read your mind
darkness underneath a smile so kind
a demon behind timid mouse eyes
such reality declined you left behind
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Voluntary abandonment of self
The offering
Surrendered, Often suffered
Daily suppression
Repressed depressions
The stimulating surge for another's light
The refuge and the motivator
Demonstratively strong, innate or acquired
Inner beauty enhanced through struggle
Outer beauty revealed
in the journey of each line and curve
Made better with time
Reemerging
Stepping into confidence
Unapologetic
Wisdom gained, lessons learned
Archived in her cerebrum repository
Self discovery, discernibly aware
With nothing to lose
Bashfulness dismissed
Enlivening pleasures
Guiding and coaxing another to please
Self satisfying if need
An awakened spirit rebounds
An eager voice is found
A woman
Over 40
Blazing anew.
© Tina Thompson
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
I'm wasting my money away,
Like its alive and running astray.
My first pay check disappeared,
Before they knew what they feared.
When I'm down and oppressed,
The one way I can still express,
That I'm myself, not any less,
Is to spoil myself with things in excess.
My mother clearly thinks I'm stupid,
That I'm only young and deluded.
And my father, with his selfish sneers,
Expects monetary repayment for a debt of 18 years.
So with their own uneducated impressions,
And their age-induced mindset regressions,
They give in to their control obsessions,
And provoke all my hidden depressions.
And when I can't make use of drugs,
Or feel the pleasure of lustful hugs,
The only thing I've left to do,
The only way to make it through,
Is spend and spend all that I can,
Use all what's left inside my hand,
Prove that all their reprimand,
Has no authority, gives no command.
Yet the only purpose for all this ridiculous strife,
Is to demonstrate that I'm the one who controls my life.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
~
*Strapped to the catapult
I sportively plan my escape
By listening to pictures
In stereo
Of the flight
Of a fitful fugitive
Who sculpted depressions in ice
Throughout the flowerbed
Where there is no true sunlight
Only its influence
And by inhaling this fragility
Onto glass
Lowering the thermostat
Like a guillotine
Until hypothermia
Took his oppressors
This coldness might well
Be everlasting
But then, so is the will to survive*
~
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 1:53 PM UTC