Only ugly black birds and black ants settle
At the end of that creek;
Right where her life stands.
She wants to stay but it has become too hard to remember why.
Is it too late for her to become an artist
And use her wrist as her canvas?
Disturbing though it might appear to them all,
She knows it would be her masterpiece.
A thousand thoughts and memories
race through her mind;
Her first day of school.
Her tenth birthday party.
The lonely, awkward days of her teenage years.
The day she discovered poetry.
The moment she first saw him.
The day she thought that she was worth something.
The day when all of that became a lie.
As she slips on her teardrops
And falls into crimson red oblivion,
She hopes they’re the last tears that she ever has to cry.
I haven’t posted anything in a while because a certain someone informed me that my poems are sometimes too sad and I just didn’t want to bore anybody.. I was actually going to post an erotic poem but it just didn’t feel right ’cause I promised myself that I’ll always be honest with my blog.
I’m sorry if my poems are disturbing… My head is a very dark place right now. I found the strength to post this because I don’t just want to lay in bed and listen to sad songs all day. I want to make this cloud above me disappear. I don’t want to hurt anymore. I like to be alone, but I hate being lonely. I hate getting flashbacks from things I don’t want to remember. I just wanna feel okay again. I often am this little girl whose dreams had no barriers, who believed in a world where anything is possible, with a heart that was full and unbroken.
Then sometimes it hits me out of nowhere. All of a sudden this overwhelming sadness rushes over me. And I get discouraged and I get upset and I feel hopeless, sad and hurt. And once again, I feel numb to the world. People always tell me I look sad and tired; that they never see me smile. I AM sad and tired. Sometimes I’m sad and tired and miserable for no reason at all. Every second, every minute, every day.. It never ends. It never ends. I’m standing on a line between giving up and seeing how much more I can take. Writing used to be my refuge but now I can’t even write again. Too gloomy.
Am I a bad person for wanting to die? Isn’t that better than feeling worthless everyday? Feeling ugly all the time? I wish I could go back to a time when I could smile and it didn’t take everything in me to do it. I want people to stop asking me if I’m ok, I’m tired of lying.
I tell everyone to be strong when I’m the weakest person in the world. I tell people I’m tired when in fact I’m depressed. I tell them I’ll be fine tomorrow when I know it’ll only be worse.
Yes, I have depression. No, that doesn’t mean I am ungrateful.
Yes, I have depression. No, I can’t just “get over it”.
This is not a choice, it’s a disease.
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