Tag Archives: depression

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty-Three

he called me a cunt.
this is my family.
no presents or Christmas cheer here.
just loneliness and heartache.

nobody’s fault but mine.
some asshole butchered Stairway last night.
and I don’t work at a guitar store.

so many things I should do.
but proper functioning is not on my radar.
I’ve broken the last good dream.
there was for me.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty-Two

tis the season.
to think about things past.
miss the things you had.
and cry.

the cold shocks.
tears stop.
if only for a little while.
they always return.

too much.
always too much.
I break.
I am not strong.
I am not worthy.
but at least I’m alive.

for now.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Forty-One

the pain is not sweet.
it festers and.
winter is coming.
too many mistakes.
no waking from the nightmare.
try to continue but.
all feels lost and.
decay sets in.
no longer myself.
can’t move forward.
can’t go back.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Thirty-Nine

I would hide entirely.
but I do not have the means.
I would end and have it done.
but I can’t erase the seams.

not sure why to live.
not sure how to die.
try to go on desperately.
try to face my lies.

I will face the madness.
play the beggar’s part.
accept the loss of perfect love.
my devils pulled apart.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Thirty-Eight

sick today.
one of many.
turn it around.
then fall again.
goals gone.
mind twisted.
on things uncontrollable.
the band plays on.
without me, I do not.
deserve anything,
unable to work.
unable to breathe.
lost in an emptiness I cannot fill.
will to live gone, broken.
by my own actions,
by my own misconceptions.
by the flaws that are all I am.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Thirty-Six

I am not the bright and shiny type.
then I look at my friends.
and realize like calls to like.

“You should eat something.”
mothers say these things.
“Even if it’s only peanut butter and jelly.”
these used to be my favorite.

all tastes like ashes now.
one of the many symptoms.
stab at them though.
the root evades me.

old solutions.
don’t work as they should.
focus a ghost who spawned nightmares.
mostly faded, he was five years old.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Thirty-Five

my heart.
is a confused thing.
barely alive.
opened too much.
to death and dismemberment.
mortal wounds unseen to.
naked eyes but.
the blood comes out of them.

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