Tag Archives: depression

Feelings

I feel like I want to write shit poetry
That no-one wants to read.
I feel that the alcohol in my system,
Is the wisdom that I need.

I feel like I could fuck
For a thousand years.
When the reality
Is probably just one thrust.

I feel like love is a fairytale
Told when I was young.
That happy ever after
Is a lie; a song unsung.

I know that obvious rhymes
Are all I have to give.
That at times my feelings
Are just too strong to live.

I feel like when I’m gone,
The world will move on.
Barely remember my light
And how dimly it shone.

A day in the life…

Darkness closes
Like a cocoon.
Second skin,
This flesh imposes
Trapping me within,
And

Suffocating.
Suffocating.
Suffocating.

A strangle grip around my throat.
My voice silenced.
Confidence stripped.
Expression stifled.

Isolating.
Isolating.
Isolating.

The mind turned upon itself.
Plans disrupted.
Dreams burned.
Thoughts corrupted.

Segregating.
Segregating.
Segregating.

Loneliness pervades.
Drives me to despair.
Plaster on a smile.
Live the charade.
And all the while

Suffocating.
Isolating.
Segregating.
Me.

Outside The Box

I press my face to the glass
And watch the world go by
Stiff fingers leave marks of desolation
Marring the wall with my presence.

It is not my world out there
It is not my life I see.
Not my life I ache to touch,
To taste, to breathe in deeply.

The world outside is vibrant,
Joyful, full of passion.
A merry-go-round of song and fun
Laughter and high spirits.
The ticker tape rain beats
A mocking drum on my window.

No, it is not my world out there.
I don’t belong with them
Those happy, shiny people.
The glass cage surrounds me
Keeps me apart, alone.
The glass cage is my world;
Cold, sterile, joyless.
Lifeless.

I can shout and I can scream
Snarl and gnash and rage
Throw myself against glass walls
Cry at the injustice of it all.
In the end it does no good
There’s no-one here to hear
There’s only me. My four walls.

And the people outside?
Those brightly lambent souls?
They cannot help me
They cannot see, you see?
Can’t look behind the glass
And see the real me

They see what they want to see;
A reflection of me.
A reflection of them.
Outside the box.
Free.

Still

I throw/ scraps of myself/ into still waters/ hope/ that the ducks will come/ and be my friends/ cautiously/ they gather/ scrabbling at my discarded pieces/ in futile belief/ that they can make me/ whole/ but I am stuck/ in a dead end town/ where empty shops/ mirror/ its empty ignorant heart/ and my own heart/ weeps softly for release/ for something more/ than this place

And at night/ when the black dog growls and keeps me/ awake/ barking its contempt/ at my pathetic existence/ I choose to ignore/ and so try/ and win the fight/ so when finally/ the eggs hatch/ and I emerge/ not newborn/ born anew/ renewed/ the same as before/ but altered/ a patchwork quilt/ of who I am/ of who they need me to be

Your face/blurred/ once through tears/ now through time/ no longer matters/ serves only as an anecdote/ a tale of the man/ I used to be/ before I fed the ducks/ and stared into waters/ still/ running deep

Save Often

I watch
through layers of self doubt
and acres of trepidation
as the world passes me by.

As the planet hurtles
through space and time
I cling to my wasted life
and wonder whether
to get on or get off.

Time heals all wounds
but it can’t heal a mind
dead set on self destruction.

There is no instruction book
no on/off switch
There’s just me
and the twisted logic
of willpower.

Caught up in the epic
of trying to use a mind
against itself;
Change a mind.
Save a life.

Save a mind.
Change a life.

Monsters

When I was a child,
I was never scared
of monsters under my bed,
the dark,
or the morbid threat
of a half open closet door.

When I was a child,
I never wanted
a night light.
Never needed to feel safe
amongst the shadows,
of my bedroom.

It is only now,
now that I am not a child,
that I realise
this,
is what the monsters wanted.

For given free reign
in the dark,
they crawled from beneath my bed,
and found a new home
inside my head.

Now the monsters
I scoffed at in childhood,
have become
the monsters of the mind.

Washed up

Tossed aside like flotsam
carried on your breaking wave.

I tumble to the sand,
a single piece of something more
forgotten and broken.

It isn’t like I blame you
you know I never could.
The allure of something new
something shiny,
something whole.

To fix a broken thing
takes time and so much more
it takes a patient ear,
a soothing tongue,
a calm embrace.

I don’t expect that
you will want to face
the blackness in my mind.
The bleak and hollow echoes
that thump within my heart.

And Finally…

I saw it on the news today;
they found my body.
I was wondering where I’d left it.
Two days it had been there,
all alone and fly blown.
In its death it served new life,
a multitude of little breaths.
I rather like the irony in that.

Two days is a lifetime for some,
the end of a lifetime for me.
Ignoble in the extreme,
to have all those people
looking at my death mask,
my final gift to the world.
Roll up, roll up; come see the show.
From unknown to newsworthy.

They say that they knew
that I was having problems.
They say that nothing is that bad.
They say a lot now it’s over,
and I find that very sad.
They didn’t say anything
Two days before; didn’t want to offend.
Funny how two days can change everything.

Biting The Bullet

Sitting with the gun,
Staring at its dead black eye,
a cycloptic reaper.
The end of all things,
Just a finger stroke away.
Yet still I linger.

Do I greet the end?
Welcome the darkness gladly?
Stop the sorrow now?
Perhaps I should wait,
Pray for better tomorrow,
A much brighter day.

Can future hope be,
Enough to stay my finger?
A hollow promise.
A decision made,
Barrel against my temple,
I bite the bullet.

Afflicted

Life is an affliction
from which we never recover.
Enter the world screaming
And never stop.

Life seems fit to torment;
a torrent of dark abuses
gilded with a veneer
of calm civility

Smiling assassins;
sheep forced into wolves clothing.
We lash out at each other
to ease our own suffering.

Our oppressive pirouette
is deaths only distraction.
In the end, it equals us all.
from plus to minus:
an inevitable subtraction.