And that that might help me discover what I am willing to try.
I was told to ponder who I am instead of how I got here,
And that that might bring me a step ever nearer,
To the place where I can ask if this phase might finally pass,
And leave me no more questions to ask.
I was told that I possess the strength,
And that I might be able to begin to negate,
The trials that I see so clearly,
And the fears that continue to plague me.
I was told to keep my head high but not my mind,
And that I was not meant to be the suffering kind,
Destined instead to rise above,
And embrace a feeling of love.
I was told that medication might keep me sane,
And that this might be all in my brain.
I was told that depression is out of my control,
And that it cannot be helped any more,
Because this is something with which I was born.
I was told that this can be a temporary state,
And that darkness is just a bait,
That draws me away from the light I possess,
And convinces me that I need rest.
I was told that laziness is the work of the devil,
And that I would have to rise above it to reach the next level,
Of enlightenment and purpose,
And give myself the opportunity to prove that I am worth more than this.
I was told that I need help,
And that my dark times are not to be felt.
I was told there are solutions for this,
And that there is an easy way to obtain bliss,
With the swallow of a pill and the belief that I am ill.
I was told it is not my fault,
And that I have an excuse for falling apart.
I was told this is because of my genes,
And that I can need to come clean,
To admit that I cannot go back and change that which is fact,
About the person I might be,
And the fears that I constantly see.
I was told there are solutions for my problem,
And that I have no excuse for falling,
So deeply into the depression that is consuming me,
And the habits that continue ruining me,
I told myself that I can do better,
And I resolved to not allow my mood to be affected by the weather.
I told myself I can shake this,
And I stopped myself from remaining complacent,
I said outloud that I am sane,
And that it only proves I am human when I feel pain.
I hate that I get high and I hate that I always seem to get by.
I hate that I often lose my phone and that I am threatened to lose my home.
I hate that I can hate myself so much that I do not see that there is anyone I can trust.
I hate that I ooze hate and that it is a reflex I can’t negate.
I hate my attempts to rhyme and I hate that it doesn’t work out half the time.
I hate that I think I’m something special because I have reached my threshold.
Because I hate disappointment.
I could turn this around and talk about what I love and tell everything else to shove it.
I could say that I love that I am brave and that I have things to say.
I could celebrate my body and the strength that I have built upon me.
I could be proud of my wandering mind and trust that there is still more value to find.
I could be easy and do the things that please me.
I could lie and deny this hate that builds inside.
But I know that it’s there.
It is a burning that tears down my soul,
And a feeling that is difficult to ignore,
It washes over me without a choice,
And it is in those moments when I lose my voice,
To the crushing sounds of another,
One that wants to smother,
Any sign of strength I might be holding onto,
And the tasks on which I thought I’d follow through,
It debilitates and resonates,
These feelings of hate.
I cannot help but listen.
Because what is the point?
How can I fight?
When there is nothing worth living for and nothing I like?
Hate is an old friend,
One who inspires the movement of this pen.
And if hate can do that,
How can I hate hate?
But it’s not hate that I hate,
It’s me and the things I allow myself to be:
A bad friend,
And someone who has sunk into depression.
Hate is nothing I want to be.
But it is a part of me.
And that is plain to see.