Most poets, as far as i've seen,
seem to battle with depression...
why is that? Well, I can't ask that about myself,
because I already know why I'm like this.
To think... It all started in the 5th grade...
That feels like ages ago now.
One of the last days of the year,
Everyone was watching Robots,
or enjoying free reign of the playground.
I was one of the movie-goers,
Happily munching away at a little bag popcorn
Durring "intermission" aka, a bathroom break,
A teacher asked me if I could help her out with something.
Little kids are so **** nieve...
I followed her into the library like a little puppy.
In the library was a group of my friends.
(for the sake of annonamysy, I won't name them)
I was told to sit at the little round table next to the teacher,
not suspecting a thing.
She started off by asking us if we had ever heard
"sticks and bricks may break my bones,
but words, they cannot hurt me,"
Most of us hadn't at that time.
I was still smiling then.
She explained that the saying is not true,
and that words do hurt.
The reason I was brought there
Was that I'd said I felt smart,
After gettting an A on an assignment.
Apparently my 'friends' were offened by that.
The teacher told me to think about others
before saying "something like that" again.
My eyes started watering.
My lip was set to a quiver.
I returned to the movie room,
intermission was long since over,
The movie was started without me.
I moved my little chair,
to the back of the room.
Lights off, curtains closed...
I learned to be glad for the darkness.
It hid my tears.
The laughter of the children
covered the sounds of my sobs.
That was when I taught myself
how to cry quietly.

For quite some time now
My life has been
Centered
On
One thing.
A girl.

A girl that has made me laugh, smile, think, and cry.
I laughed as she humored me
I smiled as we shared our similarities
I thought as she opened my eyes with her strong words.
And I cried when she said it all meant nothing to her.

But maybe she lied.
Maybe she still listens to the Zeppelin Cds I gave her for Christmas.
Maybe she thinks about me durring Led Zeppelin 1.
Maybe then she understands what she put me through.
But I still wonder How many more times
she'll do the same thing again.

.

often   i am retrodden   after passing a lengthy sleep battle
day following day      i wake in and out   loftily bobbing
  nodding into conversation  and durring out          
                                 like a tiny failing electric fan
  struggling to appear present and take part
   then whirring   into a congested cumulus  

a colleague, (name slips me), sips her coffee
she dribbles her features into her colourful lap
her words become a slury chum of incoherence
(she may snap back if i have energy to retrieve her
she may  upon a whim   form another person altogether)

i have accumulated a D.S.C. (Depression Support Creature)
the opposing to what may seem                                                
                 this fella supports my depressions feature being
and monitor's my decline
fleshed out to drain me                                                          
      whilst acting as a detracting blurred vision
shaking in a drabby coat  and baring its dumbed face
i'm turned inward on drooping wealth                          
                           and rot in the anxious conglomeration
a distracted reality from reality already conquered
                         flagged and declared ;    
the phony thing that's real