"dysthymia" poems
The world around me is silent.
I can see the leaves floating,
in mercy of the crisp wind.
I see the children playing,
too young to know the pain that
drips from the intentional wounds in my flesh.
I see those who were once my friends,
holding hands and kissing the one's they love.
All this life goes on around me,
still I hear nothing.
Nothing but the sound of my old self screaming;
locked away in that special place inside of me,
to which I've seemed to have lost the key.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC
I will not raise my head today
For I must keep my eyes fixated upon
The tiny shadow in the crease of my own arm
If I blink, it shall swallow me whole
And send this body through a gauntlet
Of heaving breaths
Heaving breaths
And the blood in my skin shall course through my veins
So bitter and foreign,
Carrying lightning bolts of pain
Cold, but burning tremors of pain...
Healthy blood should not behave this way
I'd swear this was something injected...
But my bruiseless arms say there is no way
This is my body
I am this body
I am this waif, this witch, this wraith,
Drifting through these streets of nowhere
Moving left and right,
Left and right
Hither and thither...
With the breeze of the evil man's breath
And all I can hear are my toes on the pavement
Reminding me that
I am completely alone
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC
hold up a mirror,
say what you said
cracks, in the furor,
when there was three
of you and one of me,
you came at me from
all sides and not one
of them was "on my" side,
world is wide
ocean is deep,
you have too much pride
you are a known creep,
you are all over the details
sink to a new low,
say hello to the great whales,
as they are sounding to
be louder than you
oh let me sink into that
deep blue, I will play
chess all the way to the
bottom, and when I land
it will be lunar, see,
it will be telling, sea,
because the bottom of
the ocean, the sea, the gulf, the lake, the puddle,
already know, my weakness, my muddle,
they are looking for yours,
I warned them you were here,
"Code Name Dysthymia, dear."
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
Dream of nightmares,
close your eyes to darkness.
Surrender to this madness
as you fall in to the void.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
Those nights when
All you can feel is
The self pity drowning your
Entire mind
You're so alone and
Can't find any reason at all
To stick around
I'd be better off somewhere far
Away and nonexistent
Because that's all that I
Truly deserve
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
If it was just for attention, we wouldn’t try to hide it.
If it was for attention, we’d do it on our face.
Take the razor and paint a pretty picture
Of the life we never wanted.
If it was just for attention
We wouldn’t lock the door
Of our bedrooms, our bathrooms.
We would do it,
At the dinner table
With a butter knife.
If it was just for attention, if you noticed
We’d say “yeah, feel sorry for me yet?”
We wouldn’t say “it was the cat”
Or “just a scratch.”
If we did it for attention,
Why would hurt this bad?
Every day you wake up with a constant reminder of the things that you did,
All of the tears that you cried,
All the fights that you lost to the monsters screaming inside your mind,
“Help me!”
Help me, two simple words.
A cry for help most people never heard
Before she buried herself in the ground.
But yet we knew,
We could see it behind every bracelet stacked on the next.
The way she always wore long sleeved shirts in the summer.
The way she grew silent as if her soul was being crushed into a metal form.
Like being put in that casket.
What people don’t realize is she was one of 13 million kids from 6-17 every that **** themselves every year.
That is 13 million people that needed help,
But yet, in our society if someone wants to die,
They’re crazy.
But what is crazy?
Crazy is killing your best friend by ignoring her cries.
I am crazy.
She had schizophrenia.
And bipolar disorder.
And dysthymia, which is basically just a complicated term for depression that doesn’t go away.
And yet, she never knew it.
She never knew that it was curable
Because every second she thought about herself.
All she thought was “attention seeker”
She never got help because she didn’t want them to know how bad it was,
Or how much she needed them.
And, I know she told me once before,
“I want to die.”
But yet, I heard stuff like that all the time,
Not from her, but from people who don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning, but yet never wake up.
To be addicted to the razor like a drug
Every cut, every little bit of blood that bleeds out.
Is one less thing, you have to worry about.
So don’t you dare tell me I am an attention seeker!
Because, if I wanted you to know.
I’d do it, on my face.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
Its usually happens during the day,
I will catch myself laughing,
radiating genuine joy instead of the usual fraudulent happiness.
I'll feel the relief wash over me like a wave,
carrying away every dark thought i've ever had.
Leaving me feeling weightless and euphoric.
And in that brief moment
I can finally see the rays on sunlight
shining through the murkey waters of my mind.
I will be overwhelmed at the concept
to have finally made it.
To finally see the significant beauty of life
through untainted eyes.
Yet at 2am,
when the worlds asleep and i'm all alone.
The only company being
my bedroom walls.
The air will begin to thicken in my lungs,
and I will forget how to breathe.
The silence will scream at me as the empty
walls start to close in.
I will feel the numbness sink in,
and it will consume me,
as I let the tears fall begin to fall.
I will cry for myself,
and i'll cry for everyone I love.
I will cry for the ones who betrayed me,
and for all the people I have betrayed.
I will cry because there is nothing
I can do to stop the feeling of nothingness
and imense sadness hit me
in these early hours.
Tearing away my sanity with it's
claw like nails.
And only in the early hours
will I curse myself for being so niave,
foolish to think I could ever
escape my mind.
To think that I was ever ok.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
who I am,
is not what I do,
I am not old,
but I am old enough,
to know better, whoever she/he/it is,
what I do,
is using my senses,
I am not unkind
but I am that kinda shy type,
not a wall flower, but bring in the poeple and you won't find me,
you can read in silence,
you can read aloud,
you can cho[p and mince
words or absorb it all like a sponge,
maybe one day, someday,
I will tell you who I am, no I am not famous, I am not Epic,
I doubt most truths and the ones I don't, I am still trying to
stand
under
are you sure you read that right?
Humour has helped me survive to everyone else's bane,
dysthymia is to be a temporary curse, so far four decades,
does not seem in the temporal, to me,
my glass has a crack and it is always have empty for what I
don't have, I make up in humour, not jokes (they are for the mean)
but enough of me, for this is about poetry,
how IT saves little bits of sanity, watch the woe in me,
(I use that line alot you see)
why so transparent, why so vulnerable,
this is just scratching the surface,
but enough of me,
for this is about empty gardens with rusty gates,
barn with no roof and an appetite to sate.
for if a person is a goof, sure there are few who relate,
"for you will see more foolish things than these" to
paraphrase a fool before the Lord, someone whose heart was adored,
for it was always after God.
There is much in a life the strife, the pain, soap and hot water
does not take away or wash it down the drain, or the trouble river
which has a bridge built on pillars of, naivete and emotions, in that river,
with the water riding high showing portholes of watery eyes in tear ducts,
that run freely, because they were born free, we are all prejudiced by birth
until we become self-aware and accept what value all humans are worth,
at par.
©DWE022014
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
It's been seven days since the imprint stuck to my skin-
the scars still hold true to the nature of which they were born.
They were strategically placed upon spots I chose
their insides ran from my fingertips like they were proud of it.
But I was not proud of it.
It's been roughly 91 days since the pills lined my throat-
broke through the shell I hid the dependency inside
decided to try and make myself better.
It was roughly 40 days in I took regret to my skin
these pills reminded me what blurry feels like
these pills made me forget what I actually feel like
but I'm scared of what my body will do without them.
Ten days after that the cycle continued- Day 50.
I was back on the same track I was on six years, 2190 days ago.
The small shell of who I once was cradled in the corner
turned to stone and built a monument of my dysthymia
the mirror didn't recognize me, I could not see myself.
I watch myself in the reflection and try to remember who I am
the swollen eyes do not feel like the home I've built for myself
and it's been 2190 days since I've felt this exact way
the thought of nostalgia suddenly makes me sick.
I am wishing for the days to blend together again
for them not to be counted on more hands than I have time left
this isn't is an introduction or a preamble to my story
this isn't even an epilogue anymore-
I wouldn't really call it a eulogy either.
It's been seven days since I took to my skin
the same way I did when I was just a kid
overcome with the idea of dying inside of my mind
and watching someone else die in front of my eyes.
So what is my excuse now?
Just raw emotion cutting into me like it's a slice of birthday cake
but this is no cause for celebration-
blow out the candles.
Break me down and hollow me out
disinfect these wounds so they will heal quicker.
The mania and the downward spiral are no longer holding hands-
they are jumping ship.
Dive in.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
-on dysthymia
Me, myself and I
don't give me comfort
while I deeply sigh.
Was it the father,
the son or the holy ghost
that I prayed to most?
Don't get me wrong,
I like the days and nights I've seen.
It's just that I belong
to something in between.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
Insignificance comes in waves,
and then departure is imminent.
Not gravity, but pressure, keeps
us on these tracks; tension pulling
and pushing with the force of a magnet.
Hope is the host and we are the
leeches, latching on and bleeding dry.
Emotional rollercoaster;
Riding blind and oblivious to
the hill looming ahead. We always
loathed the risk, but we enjoyed the thrill.
This imbalance, it comes in waves;
when weakness is most accessible.
Free fall from the top of the world with
no forewarning, no safety device.
Just breathless lungs from a fearful swan dive.
In a way, you are the host and
I, your parasitic lover. Your
affection is my safe haven;
your love like a salve for the wounded.
Today, I feel myself drowning, but
don't fret, this submersion comes in waves.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 9:51 PM UTC
They say I’m lazy, I should do something with my life.
If only I found a purpose and the strength to stop the knife.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 3:07 PM UTC
am i supposed to cry for you?
that evil grin, your ice cold skin.
you've got me hooked on you.
how long has it been since i broke in?
your cut wrists are tied to the wall,
no fear, other than when you realized you've lost all hope.
and i smile at the sight.
no one cares if you scream at night.
your pretty grin has faded over time.
where's your battle cry?
tick tock, tick tock.
look at the clock.
reverse.
what does it say?
666, baby I'm on my way.
sorry if i'm moving too slowly for your taste.
and if you need something to help you,
feel higher than the sun,
i suggest myself.
i promise it might help.
shoot!
knock it's head clean off.
why is the television so ******* loud?
no, i can't hear a ******* sound!
the dysthymia won't turn it off!
cut it out!
i beg you.
i wish all my demons would listen to me.
fastidious.
signs of symptoms.
they all go back to you, even if you don't want them to.
your diligent ways to make me suffer.
you don't quit until i am no longer continuing to breathe.
spending all my days, reticent, hesitant.
the world would be better without me.
that's it diary.
entry, number seventeen.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 7:26 PM UTC
I feel like a leafless tree
I feel like a dull grey sky
I feel like an abandoned child
I feel like a too tight tie.
I feel like a rusty train
I feel like an arrow with no aim
I feel like a tuneless tune
I feel like a creator on the moon.
I feel like a polluted sea
I feel like a shell with no pearl
I feel like an order less mass
I feel like an atomic blast.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
When does the love start
and the pain end
and does it know when One's made it?
Does One know if it's broken,
the parts missing,
or is One just pretending to fake it?
One's just half a thought away
From being rotten and decayed
And it still has the gall to say
That it's okay...
The only words speak
of the truths when
the hope becomes a weakness.
When the soul's rot
and the heart's dead,
but One still goes on-
can One make it?
One has half the nerve to stay
Lost in hatred and dismay
Accosted, toxic, and afraid
To say it's okay
And now One's cold, it's a mess
To find a way out of this flesh
But it's too old and it will digress
To find some way out of this...
One has gone astray, losing itself each day
No one saves, no one dares
And when it's all gone away, One hopes it has died that way
No one comes and no one cares
One's just half a thought away
From being rotten and decayed
And it still has the gall to say
That it's okay
One has half the nerve to stay
Lost in hatred and dismay
Accosted, toxic, and afraid
To say it's okay
One's broken and tired on display
Hoping for the endless day
Where it can truthfully come to say
That I'm...
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 1:19 PM UTC
Most of my Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat with
out an ankh (caws
away) aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania
the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed
triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus
on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC