Depression Poems

I've suffered with depression for almost as long as I've lived. Putting my thoughts and feelings onto paper just makes things easier to cope with. Poems make a better explanation that trying to describe this torment. I just they help others suffering through the same things.

Dictionary

There are 171,476 words in the English Language.

Why is my brain confined to say only three?

"Worthless, useless, stupid"

I wish I could give my brain a dictionary,

and to assign it a new vocabulary.

Because I don't get that negativity from anyone anymore.

My greatest enemy is here inside my skull.

She berates, scoffs, and reprimands my every move.

There isn't a single thing she won't put down.

"Pointless, purposeless, unintelligent"

"No!" I retort. "No I won't listen."

Still she pushes onward like a phalanx in charge.

"Broken! Failure! Idiot!"

Now I stand tall, I wave my banner high and yell back.

"Three words is all you say, but here I have more!"

"Beautiful! Loyal! Courageous and wise!"

This brings the legion of negativity to its knees.

"Malleable! Adaptable! Loving and caring!"

I know better now! It is my voice that speaks truth.

Logic is no match for the ever-beating queen inside my chest.

Struggle not with the tiny, insignificant voice in your head.

Let loose your own armies within.

There are 171,476 words in the English language,

You cannot describe yourself with only three.

Validation

Opinions, thoughts, feelings,

They're a brick wall and they are here,

They need to be known and clear,

But we lock'em up and throw away the key,

And then they die without being set free.

Let those lip-cages loose,

make with your opinions a truce.

Set them free, and let it be,

the start of the freedom tree!

Your words mean just as much as mine,

no more, no less, just a simple line.

So then why do you keep silent,

under the words of a verbal tyrant?

The answer is simple,

You won't make a ripple,

All you want in your creation,

is simple, precious, validation.

I'm Here

There the silhouette of your body sleeps,

Each curve and chiseled muscle painted on the blank carpet-canvas.

It serves for memories it reaps.

That shadowed rug seems meaningless to the untrained eyes of the novice.

But to us, whom with you played, danced, and trained,

That outline looms over our heads like a thunderstorm waiting to downpour.

My memory never did wane,

As your final gasps wormed their way to my core.

As I took your paw, only one thing could I think to say.

"Hold on, don't go. Just one more year."

But your breath did not calm, and still did you lay.

"I'm here Yukon. I'm here."

The Game

Welcome to the Game.

Look around and see,

All of the players like you and me.

They roll the dice,

move the space,

but some never get to pass go.

Welcome to the Game.

Will you win with greed,

or will it be you who helps others succeed.

Roll the dice,

move the space,

distract and collect.

Welcome to the Game.

Where winners make the rules,

And the losers are fools.

Don't roll the dice,

Don't move a space.

Just simply watch and wait.

Welcome to the Game.

You're a loser.

Don't try to be a chooser.

Leave the board,

throw it away.

The Game isn't for you to play.

Welcome to the Game,

Too bad you're forced to stay.

Roll the dice, move a space,

in the end you'll definitely pay.

The Void

Dark times devour the light,

our shadows feed on our positivity.

The Void twists even our saddest memories into light,

And takes them away.

To numb and delete is the way of despondency.

To our personalities it reintegrates,

merges and meshes,

until to us we are nothing but meaningless, hollow husks.

Expectations

I remember watching a movie,

Where a princess meets her prince,

and they fall in love truly.

But I haven't thought of it since.

Because life isn't that way.

We don't get those happy endings,

nor are we given happiness on a silver tray.

So we fill our void with pointless things.

Do not await to be swept away,

remember for the little things to appreciate.

It will not happen today,

With your mind you mustn't accommodate.

It is these lies you wager,

that for a smile to be had,

your expectations needn't waver.

But to think that, is to be utterly mad.

I Can't

Inside is a torrent of nothing.

The empty void rages like a hurricane,

tearing and ripping me away from life.

You all smile, but I just can't.

People all around smile.

They laugh and survive with ease.

Life is a bowl of sugar for them.

You're all useful, but I just can't.

I feel that my heart should break,

it should sink inside my stomach.

A knife against my skin should make me scream,

but I just can't.

My mind is numb,

my heart and soul are numb,

and now my nerves follow in suit.

Push through? I just can't.

You tell me to remember happiness,

but in all my years not once have I felt that ecstasy.

I turn to substance, which even now leaves me hollow.

You want me to stop, but I just can't.

So now the barrel is rested against my temple,

a bullet in the chamber, and a finger on the trigger.

You tell me to discover what I live for,

but I just, simply can't.

The cold, numbing sensation pressing against my head,

the finger itching to pull the lever,

it's the first I've actually felt.

I want to pull the trigger, but I just can't.

Even still I despise the life I lead,

I want a do-over, a reset button.

To come back as the true me.

But, my finger... I just can't.

It's so close, the icy clutches of death,

they call to me, seduce me into their embrace.

I want to pull the trigger, but then I see your face,

and I just can't.

The sight of you stabs this feeling,

through the anesthesia my body makes.

Is this love? How would I know?

I just couldn't.

Is it love? Pain? Sadness or despair?

How would I know?

But all the same, it's a feeling.

So I drop the sweet, savory fear lodged in my throat.

I cast aside the cold, stinging metal of my deadly reset button.

I want to remember why I wanted to die,

what was so horrible that I would sacrifice being with you,

and I can't.

The Breaking Point

Just another day,

only a shred of hope.

What can I say,

except it's so hard to cope.

Every hour there's something new,

to throw me down and make me cry.

I'm always blue,

I don't quite know why.

It's just an exaggeration,

a petty lie.

I can't give an elaboration,

just hear me sigh.

A hug will do wonders,

and warm this husk.

It'll soften my blunders,

until the shimmering hours of dusk.

Don't look for tears,

you'll find none.

For my breaking point nears,

and it has only just begun.

Death

I took a walk on a clear day,

and along the way I find,

a creature so beautiful and full of awe,

that it lay still in the breeze.

Upon the hot, black tar I see,

the creature still laying in dream.

So stubbornly it sleeps,

without care of those who pass.

I admire it, the creature.

For it holds its ground,

even when all think it weak.

For the bloody, mangled body,

will stay there forever more,

a testament of gore.

Death has never been so pretty.

Mourn for Life

My petals wither and fall,

to leave my bud bare and small.

Red scars run down my cheeks like dried streams,

pain in the vacant sockets gleam.

Red lips turn to charcoal,

with the drops that roll.

Wool and denim,

become my leather and silk's venom.

I Don't Care

Every day is a masquerade.

Each dancer hides their face behind paper-mache.

A smile, a frown. Laughter and tears.

In the end they're all masks.

Every day is a pageant.

Each contestant preforms for a faceless crowd.

A dance, a song. Beautiful and broken.

In the end they all get the boot.

Every day is a thunderstorm.

Each drop of rain colliding with the pavement,

A drop, a puddle. Drip drop drip drop.

In the end, they have no effect.

Every day is meaningless.

Run your mile,

Sip your coffee.

In the end, I don't give a shit.

Spectre

The blood red sea of sunset,

the tip of the day, a bayonet

Stabbed into the chest of the waking hours,

when life wrinkles and sours

Day turns to night and spirits rise,

to walk the earth and sing of their demise

A creak and a moan on this night is no robber,

but someone singing their macabre

No scent of carrion follows their prints,

but their transparent form will make you wince

Here they roam throughout the night,

until you see the solace of the morning light.