I've recently fallen into an elite group of individuals: youth diagnosed with depression by their mothers.

I can't argue with her; she is licensed.

But I can't help but feel that my case is different, minor in comparison. I'd like to call it loneliness but it's more developed than that.

It's like a cancer that started in my fingertips when they realized there was nothing to hold on to, and has since spread to my heart or my brain, whichever is responsible for the distribution of numbness to my bones and vital organs.. I'll call it 3rd stage loneliness. I'm saving calling it the 4th stage for when it starts to feel terminal.

"Lonely" is kind of a **** of a word, like "love," or "beautiful." I think people like to use "lonely" like teens use cigarettes. It taste good when it falls off the tongue. And by my observation, they both cause cancer.

Everyone wants to be "lonely" but no one wants to be alone.
So I've put it upon myself to separate loneliness into subcategories, based on mortality rate.

If you're wondering why I'm lonely, don't bother. I'm wondering the same. I have friends a family that loves me, and the rest of the chemo-esque **** that's suppose to nurture you back to health. But
I've still got that tumor buried under my skin where no one cares to look.

I ain't got many friends I can talk to.

I've concocted a list of side effects of 3rd stage loneliness, if you're interested:
1.) Insomnia - the inability to completely shut the third eye on your skull because it persists on looking to the future.
2.) Selective Hearing - the inability to listen to supposedly happy music and instead sulk with the sounds of Bon Iver or Bright Eyes ricocheting through the canals of your brain. Music your friends "probably haven't heard of"
3.) Loss of Appetite - Don't worry, you still crave food and other survival necessities. You simply lose the appetite to expand through the universe. Loss of Ambition, as the form would say.
4.) Improved Acting Skills - You'll eventually learn to manipulate the stringy muscles in your face to pull up the corners of your lips when you feel you are expected to. Not all side effects are bad.


I am not one of those darkly dressing teenagers that complains with visible angst about being misunderstood. But I do have the hair for it.

I am not suicidal. Maybe I would be, but I seem to have been struck particularly hard by Side Effect #3.

But at first mention of depression you can see their faces squirm and contort to resemble a clumsy soldier tap-dancing through a minefield, while simultaneously conducting open-heart surgery on himself.

5.) Exaggeration.

This poem is not meant to sadden, to depress. It is simply for the public awareness of 3rd stage loneliness. If you know someone suffering from this disease, please call this hotline:

1-800-462-5663
(1-800-IMA-LONE)


The more you know...

art is bisected into three categories
and other subcategories
painting & drawing
poetry & literature
music & dancing
i happened to become an
martyr to poetry, logolept
and framed masterpieces
not written down on paper
kept inside of wires attached
to my brain, smoldering my
grey matter and my feelings
melting like candles, slowly
but urgently sweating out
unspoken power and ungodly
overwhelming thoughts need
to be shared, but only show
your passion to someone
worth writing about who
is just as complex as you are

- kra

What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
It has become apparent that I, maker of all,
which includes, unbelievably, you too,
must put all of my work on hold
just to come and check-in on you.

I have listened to you vehemently beat
with such astonishing regularity the dead horse
of your, lets say discomfort (?)
over your time alive being finite,
that I actually drew up plans to wipe
out of existence totally, all horses ever
just so you'd be forced to find a new topic.
I threw out those plans of course.
I decided instead to come directly to you and ask,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?

Are you aware, last Tuesday, for example,
while you were writing that miserable little poem,
you know the one,
you kept rhyming 'die' with 'Why? Why? Why?'
Gahh. What a horrible read,
are you aware, that while you spent
four hours of your finite life unhappily writing
on your fears of death
a man much more adjusted to his
mutual, unchangeable lot
took out the very girl you write all your other poems about?
If you're curious, they had a great time.
Does that help clear things up?
If you're still confused, please, tell me while I'm here,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?

Oh, how we both know that you have your words.
So ordered are they in your head.
So active in breaking life's happenings down
in a useless obsession to understand
even the tiniest subcategories of meaning
found within larger, though still insignificant meanings,
all of which you broke down before,
forgot, broke down again, forgot, repeat into ∞.
I'm amazed you ignore the one word which silences all others.
You act as a fool who refuses a warm blanket on a cold night
out of a dumb idea of strength through suffering.
You ignore the only word which covers all who are confused;
accept.
Accept.

I can tell you with some humor, that
most of life is not for thought to poke at
like a sexually incompetent lover getting
a chance at the town's *****.
Which you'll remember didn't go so well for you either.
I think Kim was her name? Anyways,
still, you have your words,
so I'll ask you again,
Maker to man,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?

Perhaps, a simplified picture
will help you get an idea of my disappointment here.
Lets see, how to make this really basic for you...ah!
For me, you give off all the excitement of a cat staring
at a limp string on the ground, occasionally patting it
with its paw, claws retracted.
But I want you to be like a dog who ferociously bites
down on the rope I hold the other end of
and pulls with all his strength against me! For fun! For life!
For a right he assumed all on his own to have what he wants
and works to make that true.
But you,
you just sit there pawing listlessly at all I hold out to you.
So I ask you again...
No.
No.
Never mind. You're done.
Come with me.

These subcategories of articles
That separate theory from fact
Are lines that, really,
Are quite unclearly drawn.
Categories for theory and qualia
That put me under the impression
That everything is based on a conjecture
And it's all in my head.
Qualia is defined as being subject
To your sense perceptions
Brought on by stimulation of phenomena.
Theory is a system of ideas used
To explain something.
But don't we theorize everything,
Based on our qualia?
If we perceive that a rose is red,
And we theorize that this type of rose
Will always be red because we will always see it red,
Does that really make it red?
Is my red your green,
And you only call it red because to you need to call it something?
Or is that just our theory that to be comfortable
Is to fit in and be accepted by everyone?
And that to challenge what is called fact
Is to be rejected?
Where do we draw the line
In these thickly worded and sinking articles?
Is it where we can finally say that
Everything is based on theory that our qualia subjects us to?
If so, am I under the correct theory that
I really am alone?
That my sense perceptions just play tricks on me
So I don't think to hard, or go insane?
Is insanity just theory based on qualia?
Or maybe I should be under the theory
That being a thinker like this
Subjects me to the unpleasant qualia of a perceived headache.

Sometimes I sit down and think, “Is this all there is to life?”
Compartmentalize my feelings of sadness, joy, and excitement into boxes
Some of which stack higher than others and tumble down into subcategories
Times I was sad because of my period, because of school, because of ----

Other times I stand up and I don’t think, “I am completely satisfied with life.”
Because I am not
I look at cracked paint on walls and study the paths the minuscule crevices decided to take
So easily permanent and there

My head has established a tyranny of overthinking and anxiety that boxes with itself
Left, right, no left, up, maybe down, sideways, maybe
Too much to think and my brain can’t seem to understand there is still time to think
No decision has to be made about anything ever just yet not yet maybe

I understand time casts an infinite shadow
It forever runs out even though it’s nowhere near the finish line
It’s always running out
Always leaving me breathless