"depressives" poems
Depression is not a grey mist hanging over everything, it is the absence of the grey mist that 'normal' people are accustomed to. They experience life in a muted way. We, as depressives, get the chance to experience the truth, for that moment, and it is so unbearably painful because it is real.
Seeing this reality is being exposed to the truth. We think. Does the truth lie?
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
I talk a lot about motion,
like I know a thing of progress.
Drop of water in the ocean.
Beautiful ripples of tragedy,
of comedy.
Nothing to it,
that's what we know.
We all know
the words and we go:
Tear into space,
terraforming,
ISO: a meaning higher than
all the lies we spin, just to gravitate.
I talk a lot about language,
communication's importance.
Did you know I only know one?
So, holy **** I'm an *******
Nothing to it,
that's what we know.
Developed
world depressives, go:
Tear into space,
terraforming,
ISO: a meaning higher than
all the lies we spin, just to gravitate.
We all go
to return
to one place.
We all shoot the farthest we've ever shot,
just to realize we're separate by margins
drawn by logos and emotion --
nothing to come will be made of much
but those two things, because
escape would be improbable.
(becomeasgodsbecomeasgodsbecomeasgods)
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
It seems to be
That at one time
No one cared about the sewers
The ****** and manic-depressives
The postman who exploded his brains
Tragedy in shadows
Pieces of people
Romanticized, it is
To die in effortless affliction
To die in parts
The end is perilously attractive
Cradling the unknown
As for love
As for hope
Happiness, joy
Savagely attacked
It is too easy
To be sad
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that can't speak.
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that break their own bones and choke on their teeth.
Hi my names Lauren and I see kids with bruises, kids with no excuses, kids with cuts, kids howling at the moon like mutts. They're begging to get out of their skin and into a more feral suit, they want their bite to be worse than their bark, hang themselves in the park, finally be noticed, glowing smiles like that of an alley cat, spat out blood last week, "must've been the pills, that **** kills."
Hi my names Lauren and I forget my name a lot. I write it in the hearts of heartfelt hoodlums, not so brave victims, mothers' worst nightmares, mothers who don't care, boys who dare set themselves on fire, light it up ****** you aren't getting any brighter.
Hi my names God and I ****** up.
Hi my names Lauren and I talk to the dead. They tell me about the papers they keep under the bed, poems no one reads and suicide notes with things unsaid.
Hi I'm Lauren and the dead can't dance when they speak. They're not too steady on their feet, dangling from rafters with chairs beneath.
Hi I'm Lauren and I ****** up, you ****** me up. You won't talk to me, and he won't look at me, and dad can't stand me and mom tries her best to understand me and I once hit my head so hard on the wall I fainted. Yes mom, it was on purpose. I thought we painted that pretty picture in my blood months ago.
Hi I'm Lauren and I write poems that don't lie about the truth, I write poems about depressives, lost boys, starving boys, ****** boys, and my boys. Those all go hand in hand. I write poems about heartache, bone break, undertake, and personality fake. These are all the same. I write poems about things I've seen, things I've done, things I've ****** and threads that were spun into ropes tied into nooses and put behind the pile of ***** laundry on the floor. I write about pills in dressers and knives in scabby skin and how much I hate god but love his children and how my brain is broken and I'm still stuck hoping I'll be left with something to write about next time I forget my name but can remember yours.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
Severely hyperactive mind
To keep up with a age of sensitive depressives
Or to morally go where no end is close
I
Allotted in lieu of this knowledge
Give it away
Every taste of bitter fruit of vine
Much of tender entanglement between you and I
And, so any enlightenment also blended - now dispelled
The magic is of Etymological contradictory
Reverent souls whom despicably chore over us
And the managers granting Death a pass without your consent
For freedom, for your freedom and the lives of lawve
Please be quiet, be sure to not awake the myth
Make sure you keep as far stretched as humanely as possible
Surely it'll turn accordion, to combat your intake of fresh air
The grips of mice are like mine
be where,
beware
&
or
NO,
Know,
be in transition.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
Why are depressives good dancers?
because
they're always getting down.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
Stereotyping often portrays poets as being brooders, loners,psychotics, manic-depressives, addicts, or just plain "nuts." In other words (in terms of their peers), "normal people." They should be 'French', or know at least three French words, and be able to wear a striped, long sleeve pull-over, topped with a black beret(neck-scarf optional). Should be able to write stuff no one understands, yet readers will pretend they do as long as it reads and sounds 'intellectual'. Must be able to stomach the taste of Espresso, which must come from Starbucks, and enjoy the so-called 'Bohemian' life style. Must be able to sit comfortably with a set of bongo drums between their knees, and continue living in the 50's, the 'Beat Generation." "Maynard G. Krebbs" is their idol.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
Yiska feels as if
she's about to
split open
and her mind
pour out
all her thoughts
and feels like
she's about to *****
but she doesn't
now she feels
as if she's constipated
and the thoughts
and words
won't budge
and the mind quack
(psychiatrist)
sits opposite her
at his desk
and she sits
cross legged
staring at him
and out
of the window
behind him
she can see snow
falling
drifting slow
then fast
as if it can't
make up its mind
what to do
and on his desk
is a photograph
of a family group
of smiling faces
and she hates it
the smiling
that we are ok
and living well
kind of look
she says nothing
the words
have become
bunged up
in her head
and he talks
about ECT
about how it helps
depressives
and others
with mental
health issues
and all she wants
is to go back
to the locked ward
and sit
in the arm chair
by the window
and radiator
in her night gown
and think of nothing
just good old nothing
and wait until
Benny arrives
and sits beside her
and they both sit
and think of nothing
and nothingness
enfolds them
like a warm
fat mother
and they just
like to be
close to each other.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
Thieving and burglary - deliberate
indulgent, ignorance, waste of opportunities - deliberate
drinking, loose morals, bad company, drugging - deliberate
lazy, stupidity, state dependency in viable health - deliberate
babies for welfare payments, employment avoiding - deliberate
hate, envy, jealousy, lies, slander, crimes, drunkenness - inadequacies
Racism, ignorance, small mindedness, pettiness, belligerence - Low scale inherent characteristics
Betrayal - engineered
Loss of employment and brilliant career ruination - engineered
alone and social isolation - engineered
lack of intimate relationship - engineered
Rudeness, screams, fractured relationship - engineered
economic stagnation - engineered
Physical limitations - engineered
In the woke civilisation of the great Island
Psychopaths Social and structural Engineers march in Red
In raving anodyne tones the entitled ivories do the twist
Please ignore all the listed deliberate glaring omissions above
No! you see in deluded grandeur
Its time for the blame game, its time for the blame game
Its all the fault of the immigrant
who studied and worked to make a better life
especially that black successful one
with everything just going well for him
we didn't boat him on on the Windrush
He's not cleaning our roads or in the factory
He's not fetching and wiping **** in the Hospital
He's not even into crime and supplying our drugs
No! No! No!
He is a leech and a parasite
He is responsible for our miserable uninspiring life
Comrades, join us, the Revolution is now
They say I suffer, I have pain
How can I, I wonder
when its all your engineered and dramatized work
of which I am not in the least responsible!
And you know it!
Narcissists, Psychopaths, Depressives, Mentally challenged loonies
We give you your Revolution, please enjoy the spoils!!!
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 7:23 AM UTC
Had he shown
at the church
on the day
Yiska knows
she'd be back
from her fresh
honeymoon
to a life
as his wife
but the ***
never showed
& left her
all alone
in the church
with the guests
& parents
& broke her
she sits now
in the ward
all locked up
with others
suicides
depressives
drug addicts
alcohol
type addicts
& others
who like her
left broken
in their minds
Benny's there
beside her
wrist bandaged
where he'd slit
with a blade
she watches
as he stares
at the floor
she's done that
slit a wrist
tried hanging
from the cord
from the pink
dressing gown
from the door
but some nurse
rescued her
****** *****
it's snowing
Benny says
his eyes raised
looking out
the window
so it is
she mutters
watching flakes
of whiteness
falling down
seemingly
& darkly
a circus
& she just
a sad clown.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
They will come.
And it'll you.
It'll hit you because its the 21st century, the reality of the modern world. You and them; them and everything that surrounds them.
Like a pedestrian attempt, the government system is all at cost about change and more change and brainwashing.
The in and out assests duplicating the excruciating mantel of dead lives and lives at stake.
You will walk half-asleep doing things you think are important.
Like a baptized child, to sanitize the dirt is even pious to the church, but they will come to you
and expect you to write about them; them and everything that surrounds them.
A column of pathological liars, OCD's, manic depressives, and a row of *** positives is the table of modernism.
But its fine, until 24/7 never stop wishing to 11:11.
Like a house is fine without a home, you will at least feel you're not alone.
They will offer a god - in high buildings, in the streets, in your neighborhood; a fine narcotic charm
that will mend your mood. And then they will come to you.
You and them; the faces, the ideologies, the tattoos, the smell, the drugs, the skin; they will insist you to write about them.
And it'll hit you.
They're disgustingly beautiful.
Way of thinking - sound,
tattoos - artsy,
scent - morning's dew,
drugs - crystal and *****
skin - cashmere of the richest kind.
Like faith, you are worm on bait in the modern world called 21st century.
They will come to you wanting you to write about them.
You and them; them and everything that surrounds them.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:16 AM UTC
Lying to control
lying to steal power
lying to hide your crime
lying to hide your inadequacies
lying to undermine and subjugate
lying to look good when bad thoroughly
lying to ruin relationships and destroy happiness
lying to ruin others' futures, their employment and careers
is
that
why
others resent you
why you no-longer hold respect
why other Faiths rise up and fight you
why you have the highest divorce rate in he world
why you have most numbers of depressives on chemicals
why you have the most single mothers in the western spheres
why your children are semi-educated, undisciplined, mannerless
why your youths are stabbing each other and have no respect for you
is
that
why
there are no trusts in politics
why even those with status still steal
why your morals are loose and shallow
why one in four of your males are pedophiles
why husbands break and end up killing their partners
why you have five year olds learning about homosexuality
why parents can't train children except those from other cultures
why most are superficial with no spines and crack at little pressure
why you make stinking stupid bullies who are only brave in gangs
is
this
why!
is
this
why!
is
this
why
you are never happy and need to pay comedians to make you laugh...Is this why you lie to take power, lie to control, lie to lie!!!
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 5:26 AM UTC
Yiska feels
the knife blade
with fingers
blunt as hell
she mutters
and puts it
down again
by the plate
butter knife
I tell her
sitting down
beside her
for our tea
in the ward
(the locked ward)
Ted serving
lovely nurse
soft giant
feeling low?
Yiska nods
and picks up
a sandwich
and nibbles
I recall
the last time
that she sliced
her thin wrist
the right way
in the bog
blood spurted
the window
and walls
as she turned
but so far
she hadn't
tried to hang
her sad self
as I had
(and failed it)
speak later?
I ask her
others eat
around us
dark silence
depressives
suicides
(the failed ones)
hard drinkers
drying out
after tea
we walk off
together
hand in hand
can I help?
I ask her
I need out
of this hole
she whispers
but she knows
as I do
you can't walk
through locked doors
of the ward
I kiss her
she hugs me
two lost souls
in one vast
surging sea.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC