The Struggle (a poem) [CW//Depression]

Fighting against the dark, in ways not done before,
the support of friends, and people who are more,
Against a life become stagnate, unable to escape,
A place without purpose or meaning, an unenviable fate,

I fight,
Against this clawing darkness, this empty void,
But the struggle is getting harder and harder,
I’m losing ground,
I’m losing myself,

I know someone who revels in my hurt,
In my sorrow, in my darkness,
Knowing that hurts in its own way,
Is this apathy a numbing of the pain? When it becomes too much?
Too much sadness, too much hurt, too much hardship?

I know not,
But it’s behind my eyes, in my mind, eating my soul,
I’m holding as tight as I can. I struggle with all my might,
But I’m slipping, I’m afraid I’m letting go,

Back to darkness, back to gray,
A world without light, without day,
A place of sleep, void of dream,
Neither dead or alive, in-between,

Can I escape? I do not know,
But no matter what i try, it never let’s go.


Muted Gray (a poem)

[CW// depiction of my depression]

A world of muted gray,
A calm that has no care,
A peace that eats the soul,
The purity of despair

No desire for food,
Or a lovers warm embrace,
A world without emotion,
Without time, without space

A place that knows no joy,
A place that knows no pain,
A world of only overcast,
never the cleansing of the rain

I feel it in my mind,
I know it in my heart,
It eats at my resolve,
Slowly taking me apart

Pierce this clinging veil,
Threatening to consume me,
An ever returning darkness,
Will I ever been truly free?

That Loving Hate (a poem)


I miss the touch.
I miss the feel.
I ache inside.
A broken doll.

The pain returns.
The familiar weight.
The crushing fingers.
The loving hate.

I want it back.
Evening drops.
I long for it.
My breathing stops.

This broken doll.
This mangled toy.
This worthless trash.
It finds no joy.

I miss the hurt.
I miss the pain.
Throat shut tight.
Never whole again.

My Favorite Color (A Poem)

(CW// Self Harm)

The metal is cool against my burning skin.
I haven’t started yet, but I can already see the lines.
A memory of the past, the future.

Perhaps this can cut through what I feel.
Perhaps this can make it real.
Perhaps this will be the time.
Perhaps this will make it fine.

To cut, to not, to heal, to rot
Why does it matter?
What’s the point?
I don’t know what to do anymore.

Fuck it, why not, right?

Transformation – A Poem

A rusted hinge, a lifeless day,
A missing wheel, hardened clay,
A broken doll, a sundered clock,
A shattered mirror, a key-less lock.

A forgotten toy, an unopened gift,
A time of pain, a massive rift,
A mind of chaos, never clear,
A life somber, lacking cheer.

A beacon of light, slicing haze,
A map to lead, exit the maze,
A point of reference, one to seek,
A new found joy, no longer bleak.

A place of awe, of wondrous sound,
Visions of beauty, dance all around,
This fire you lit, striking the coal,
Forever burns, inside this soul.

(For A)

Sea in the Desert – A Prose Poem.

The sea is a thing of majesty; the origin of life, mother of all.
She is a thing of beauty, power and awe.
A surface of glass, clear and sharp.
A continual dance of calm and chaos, motion and still.
Cool to the touch, warm to the embrace.
That beauty is what first drew me, but what held me is more.
The surface is just a piece.
Hidden beneath lie wondrous depths, mysteries beyond compare.
She does not share them lightly.
Few will ever truly know the sea, her beauty, her depth, her power.
Fewer still will love the sea.
She is a fickle mistress, selective of who she allows.
The sea has chosen to share her wonder with me, and I am forever blessed.
My sea in the desert.

(For A)