Depression isn't what you think.
It's not slicing wrists and crying.
Not for everyone.
Sometimes it's just a heavy blanket.
You get your work done.
Mostly, anyway.
But you don't leave your room.
You don't leave your bed.
You tell your boyfriend you're going to bed early, but you sit awake for hours.
You get a watermelon from the kitchen and eat it in bed with a spoon.
Lights off, juice dripping down your face.
Watermelon used to taste good.
Sleep used to be easy.

and you said:  "I hope you like chocolate."



(sonnet  #MMMMMMCCCLI)


I've not had choclate, nor a taste, in pale
Excuse, for that in days, perhaps cuz hence
You called yourself that, and my hunger thence
Was only for whom stole aught else, t'avail
Me of:  just you.  And oh! how that detail
In lieu of packaged squares, eats me and sense
Out of both home and hearth, ne crumb to fence
The **** is't? yet smudges in betrayl.
Oh, Adrian!  There I must leave off.  Were--
What?  Savour ah, minutest crumbs, roll too
Across your tongue that darkest morsel your
Soul yields itself up to, and ah, foil to
Glint, crinkle, tease, nor but in silver tour
Hold lo, exquisite heights:  what's I love you?

17May17a

Yes, He's Talking to Himself
Mumbling like some ******
Chanting like some Mooney

But it is to himself he speaks
No voices does he hear
Contemplating his misery
Or some bygone forgotten fear
Poor soul of delusion
He pulls from within
The strength of a Titan
Of a hundred strong men
Hero of stories
That never are told
Where he is the hero
So strong and so bold

Yes, He's Talking to Himself
Harmless as can be
Ask me how I know
Because it's me, talking to me

I found out recently that I am different
Hopelessly different from people I meet

All my life I've been a misfit
Unable to properly please

Pleasing to some, my knowledge is infinite
Uneasy to some my gaze to meet

How hopelessly lonely this life is, isn't it?
An INTJ female overcoming constant defeats

he told me it's kind of like you copy people


I saw a certain amount of truth in that,
but it was more like adding a layer of paint
onto a canvas i've already been working on--

ever since I can remember I have treated people
like arts and crafts, like books, like in depth studies
I've loved watching documentaries on the salinity of
ocean water
Shakespeare's secret life and cotton blankets
watched my father put together bikes
disassemble sinks and make things work
been at a loss for words but filled
to the brim with definitions i'll
never use,
always been
fascinated by the unknown
and the known, often found
with acrylic smeared on
my thighs like a palette
deep in thought with
no poker face, searching
for different ways to describe
the way I have or have not seen
people-- dodgem, reticent, abseil,
cloisonne.

so,
yes,
I see the truth in that
in wanting to understand so badly
that it becomes a part of me,
but how can you tell them that?
how can you tell him that?
how can you say, 'this is me'
a conglomerate of many but
still my own?

i cannot put a halter on curiosity
putting songs on repeat to harmonize
to, wanting to know everything about
the things people love because
there is so much to appreciate,
to follow, to grasp and I
want to get in and get
*****, I want to
twist between the gears
touch everything
every fencepost
every brick, every
old paperback

so,
maybe.

maybe that is true.

Tyger Tyger burning bright in the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye could frame thy perfect symmetry.
In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes
On what wings did he aspire
What hand dare seize the fire.
And what shoulder and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart
And when thy heart began to beat what dread hand and what dread feet.
What the hammer what the chain in what furnace was thy brain
What anvil what dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp.
And when the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears
Did he smile is work to see?
Did he who make the lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright in the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye could frame thy perfect symmetry.
~ William Blake

You do not get to hurt my feelings and call it "art"
I will not gift you in that way
You own all the credit but I refuse to give you fame
This is not a poem
If it were it'd be titled with your name
Details about how the clouds couldn't compete with me but instead,
I am feeling that feeling with no name
And that's why
This is not a poem
As I'm lying on this bed
I will sign it and hide it within my drawer labeled 12 AMs
Because you are not an artist
They create beauty from their own pain
But you have used mine
You will never know what it said
I still love you
But I must remind you,

that this is not a poem.

i crave for your presence
amidst the scents that **** me.

you exhale a cloud of death
and i inhale

you.

the nicotine hits
i close my eyes
the idea of you
travels through my bloodstream.
i am intoxicated
by images of me
giving you those marks on your neck.
you moan in the pleasure of pain.

smiling inside
my eyes open
i exhale reality

you walk past me
like smoke;
i am ephemerally and eternally
in love.

i’d light another stick
if it meant you’ll be with me

because you’re a vice i cannot resist
the smoke i cannot keep.