erwood 2h
Depression is not feeling sad
Or thinking your decisions are bad
It's having this cloud go over your head
It's lying at night awake in your bed
It's coloring shapes to make yourself see
Something, anything for which you could become free
It's shaking and pausing and pretending to sleep
For being numb is much better than taking the leap
And depression is strange for it makes you think faster
Your thoughts speed around til you make them your master
So you paint on a smile and go out to be
The person your family and friends think they should see
They don't need to know about the hurt you can't feel
For to them, you're just fine, though this sensation is real
And the emptiness consumes you until you feel small
For depression is feeling everything and nothing at all.
els Oct 2016
I feel my love
for you growing,

just like
how the grass will
continue its responsibility
as nature,

to fill
the earth with warmth
and comfort,
to cover all emptiness.

What I mean to say is,
my love grows with a goal for
others to see how you are
very much alive.
how you made me, alive.
there's a fisherman down by the sea
sitting on the wharf
watching the sun sink into the western sky
a frown frames his house
he looks out the window
at his pole, gear
and especially that of his net
metaphors that weigh on him
uprooting his garden
a garden of no delight
one lonely row of forget me not
and regret
all wilting
his foundation
never found or realized
he pauses
runs his hand over his pole
like a belt without any notches
his grip slipping into the abyss
as the last of the orange
bleeds also
at where the sea  meets the sky
where his day slowly turns to night
somewhere out there he sees his image
in nature's mirror
at his crossroads
for deeply
and some may say shallowly
he looks onto the sea one last time
and he means what he says
and throws his fishing gear in
tears welling in his eye
as he watches his teddybear sink
lips gurgling
seemingly asking why
... why
he answers back
there were no fish or bites
in his lonely sea
or wind at his back
... there
his window opens wider
the sea not singing or dancing
he sees the ambient light
... here

Logan Robertson

If one reads between the lines the poem reads like a eulogy with a
harbinger to come.
English Jam Mar 4
[Part the First]

There's some giddy, childish sensation
The hope of a new generation

Faceless cameras war for my voice
A flashing ocean of stomps and shoves
Taken from me is my choice
Given is a false sense of love
They smile too wide to be true
Contorted and stretched, like some plastic
But they're all I have before the blue
So deep breaths, and then come dramatics

People who pass me by
Don't seem to realise
The emptiness of the sky
They just need to see me sign

They ask:
Is it lonely up in space?
Is it a cold, abandoned place?
Is it bright amongst the stars?
Do you know who you really are?

[Part the Second]

My life has faded to drunken thoughts
Reality doesn't confirm what can't be bought

The multicoloured psychedelia
Of nebula turning to rainbows
Now looks more fake than ever
And so my sanity goes
There's a beast out there, lurking
I'm not sure if it wants me
But my hope is hiding, sulking
From the abyss that can hear and see

The worst way to die is alone
Where there's no one who can help me
As my punishment destroys my home
At least, from my memory

They screech:
It's so lonely up in space
It's a cold, abandoned place
It's too bright amongst the stars
I think I'm dreaming too far

[Part the Third]

The faintest echo of laughter
Presents itself as my only answer

It's distant, like someone drowning in ecstasy
But it rings from the walls to my ears
The effect of the starry-eyed seas
Has mutated into whimpering fears
I know I'm not amongst the stars anymore
But the damage cannot be undone
So I gave myself to the floor
I could lie here, and never see the sun

Space could've never actually existed
Just a vivid fantasy of escape
But my mind has been so twisted
It must've been the cruelty of fate

They wonder:
Was it lonely up in space?
Was it a cold, abandoned place?
Will the stars ever forgive?
Do I still have a life to live?
Just a three-part theatrical space story I was casually thinking of. Wow, that sounds pretty arrogant (but I meant it in a nice way:)
Kindness is a habit I don't look forward to
and beauty is silence, absolute zero
the end of all time, where all things go
in the spec of decay, a swirl of emptiness
the eventual horizon swallow
Anonymous One,
Strange how the human mind loves escape,
Strange how we run in many mazes all our life.
A man can be irritable, abrasive to his wife
And daughter and son through no fault of their own.
He can chew quarrels with neighbors to the bone,
Or invoke memories of what his father had done,
Dwell on his unhappy childhood, love turned sour.
He can nurse resentments hour after hour,
Year after year, or water his discontent.
His energies, too, may be spent
On racial or group prejudice and hate,
Political ideologies growing at an increasing rate.
He has it in him to grow bored in relationships,
To seek other roses, travel on other ships,
To seek lovely new eyes, new love, and happiness -
Anything to cover up his loneliness.
He's a creature of pleasure and excitement,
Often becomes enamored of his pain, internal din,
Does anything to escape his emptiness within.
Or he may choose the soothing balm of religious belief
Or ideology or become a patriot,
Seeming high-minded, yet behind the mental drape
Is the fact that he loves running, loves escape.
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