I Am Sick Once Again

How did I get back here?
When I once worked so hard to avoid,
This crushing weight of the empty void,
I have recently become.
Because the only thing I seek is being numb,
And escaping it all,
So that I do not notice my own fall,
And tumble into a stumble,
Of uncertain rebuttal,
Which I thought I would have prepared by now,
And along the lines learned somehow,
To stand a little stronger,
And not allow this to be the only thing I ponder,
Allowing myself to to succumb,
To the darkness that I have learned will come,
When I begin to neglect my own sense of respect,
And do that which I know I will regret,
Such as smoking my day away,
And forgetting what it is like to run and play,
Leaning on my deadly crutches,
And encouraging my side that can be so destructive,
Since this life continues to slip through my desperate clutches,
And I am left wondering how I came to deserve all of this.
What did I do that welcomed all of this hate?
And how do I once again relate,
To the person I recently knew me to be,
Accomplishing things I knew I could always see.
What made me change so quickly?
And how was I so blind to the obvious lead,
I was taking in a life that has become perplexing,
And feels like it is running out of steam,
So early in my young and troubled life,
Because all I continue to recognize is strife,
Versus the opportunity that might be presented to me,
To learn and grow and set a different version of me free.
I know I once believed that the girl I knew me to be,
Was destined to only be a shadow of who I can be,
I once possessed the strength and stubbornness,
To pursue the impossible and allow me to transgress,
The restraints I once accepted as fact,
And my determination to react,
Not allowing myself to be constrained,
By the fact that I might actually be insane.
Because I count insanity as a blessing,
Since it keeps me alive and digressing,
Into the darkest corners and brightest lights,
Seeking a spark that I know I can ignite,
To save the person I have the potential to be,
And not allow this struggle to continue suffocating me.

Cyclical Depression

I don’t know what to write about any more,
Should I dive into the ways in which I have been wronged?
Or should I continue on with celebrating all that is gone?
I hate the sound of my own voice,
And have grown tired of listening to myself on loop,
Or find a way to be creative with this expression,
Because the same questions and doubts keep pressing in,
They never leave me alone,
And I remain hounded by the same questions,
If I have anything left of value to give?
Or if this is the point where I finally give up?
And succumb to the natural numbness found at the bottom of this cup?
I am tired of thinking positively,
And exhausted by the battle to not sink down completely,
Admitting that I am a natural piece of shit,
Allowing myself to finally come to terms with it,
Not caring any more about my boredom,
No longer giving a fuck about my potential,
And finally saying out loud that I have always been mental,
Because I love to love things that are bad for me,
And it is more natural to embrace the cynical,
Admitting to believe in that fact that all things are disappointing,
And nothing is worth working for,
Because it will all be ripped out from underneath me,
When I thought there was nothing even left beneath me,
Proving that I can always sink lower,
And there is always the hope for a lack of revival,
Paired with a frustrating piece of me that will not let go,
Of the conflicting hope to attain something larger,
And rise to the occasion I was born to address,
Forgiving myself for all the opportunities I transgressed,
And allowing myself to finally move on from this mess,
It is a nagging hope that I will finally learn to cope,
Finding the freedom that I have been searching for all along,
And allowing myself to feel like I belong,
In the place I have chosen to finally rest my head,
And the peace which I finally can bring to my bed,
If I choose to succumb to this release,
And work for the things that will bring me this,
Versus allowing myself to remain remiss,
And continue to complain about the opportunities I have missed,
Or the spirit that I lack,
Paired with an overwhelming desire to retract,
Any words that I spoke in boldness,
Or any thoughts I expressed with hopefulness,
So I can continue to deny,
That there is so much I am battling inside.

The Person I Hate The Most

Sometimes I hate myself.

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:
An addict,
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.

Damn Depression

This isn’t something I’m working through,
This is something I’m living with,
Though there’s a part of my soul that wants to finish this shit.
But I can’t seem to tell if there’s a soul to pitch
or if I have descended into the state of a dumb ass bitch.
I told my mother I was fine when I finally picked up the line,
And I told my friends I was fun once I put down the gun,
But I told myself I was shit and and to toughen that lip.
Where did I lose track of perfection?
And where did I find this infection?
How did it win in the face of such denial?
And how can I continue without a smile?
What do I find fun besides the threat of being done?
And what do I serve besides the objection to swerve?
When did I forget that I had such promise and hope?
And when did I allow the smoke to tighten my throat?
This is something that I’m living with
And something I could easily end with a clip.
It’s part of my soul and part of the struggle
That makes life look to me like scattered pieces of an impossible puzzle.
I take a breath and convince myself that the struggle is worthwhile,
While I have my hand on a bottle on top of the pile
Of trash I call my mind and the voice I seem to stifle,
Somewhere on top of the soul I keep hidden in denial.
There are no solutions to the problems I face,
And it’s up to me to find a place
to prosper and grow
and show the world what I have to show.
It’s up to me to find a way
to remember my sense of play
and to treat every day as if it were a gift not to slay.
But my mind is muddled and my soul is missing,
And I can’t seem to find a reason to listen
to myself or others,
and I got lost in the every day struggles.
I cannot drown out my sorrow,
And I can’t seem to borrow
A soul that fits
Or an image that sticks.
So I lay here in fits
Of frustration and anger
With a burning inside that is on the verge of danger.
These words seem to soothe the fire inside,
But the more I use them the more I can’t deny,
That this is a part of me
And a part to see
And I need to stop placing all the blame on my family tree.
Because I cannot blame genetics
for the the parts of life I cannot seem to connect with.
And I can only blame myself
For the mind I put on a shelf,
And the soul I denied
while I kept the company of three ghosts by my side:
my father,
my mother,
and a desire for the most
out of a life that I would not choose to boast.
This is life and this is what I have to live with.
And damn me to hell if I become a weak ass bitch.