Seeing Life Through Black Colored Glasses

I’ve had to relearn how to live,
That’s what I was given with the gift of depression.
I had to recognize that I am not whole,
And I had to learn from what I’ve been through before.
I learned that I have faults and weaknesses,
And that I seem to struggle with the simple things.
That getting out of bed is a battle instead,
Of being the opportunity I wished I saw.
That the ability to speak is something I once did not reach,
When I was too busy grinding my teeth.
That social interactions are a cause for reaction,
In the form of sweat and anxiety and a wish to retreat.
That eating was an evil necessity,
And I wished that it was not needed regularly.
That hope is something I crave,
But also something I haven’t seen in many days.
I had to relearn how to be awake,
And that there are mistakes I might make.
I had to teach myself how to speak,
Despite the constant worry that I keep,
Telling me that I should first think,
Through every possibility and all that I could be,
Before I decide what to see.
I had to grow in ways that I had previously denied,
And I had to prove to myself that I am willing to try,
To save this mind from the infecting thoughts that are unkind.
I had to learn to be positive,
Since it was not my first reflexive,
Reaction to the trials I endure,
And the person I ensure,
Myself to be,
In this fucked up version of reality.
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I Needed You To See Me

Thank you for listening,
But you seemed to be missing the point,
Where I no longer wanted to speak of my troubles,
And right now I do not want to seek a rebuttal.
I have always struggled with this,
And this is not the first time I have caved to blackness.
I have always been depressed,
But now you will not allow that piece of me to rest.
You want to discuss the feelings that I cannot trust,
And you want to heal the wounds I so honestly display,
But that is not the reaction I was seeking when I said,
That I have been spending too much time inside my own head.
And I have been struggling with feelings I want to put to rest.
But this struggle has always existed,
I just have always resisted the pressure to speak of what troubles me,
And the reasons for which I no longer want to breathe.
I have always been silent and when it comes to my belief,
In the thoughts that will not allow me to sleep.
This is something I have always gone through,
And something that you are beginning to view,
As a piece of me and a part of the person you see me to be.
Depression has always resided in my mind,
And this is just another time when I struggle to stay alive.
But you are starting to see this side of me,
And I apologize for shaking your belief,
That I am a strong and happy and filled with life,
And someone who can prove to survive.
I am sorry that I have shared the truth,
That that is not just a trait of my youth,
But something that I continue to struggle through.
I am sorry that I am not the best friend you thought you had,
And that I prove to be more than just occasionally sad.
But I know that this is of no consequence to you,
Since this is something you have also been through.
I know that you will stand by my side,
No matter what battle I might have waging on the inside,
Since you have shown your loyalty through all of this,
And you still want to understand what it is,
That upsets the person I strive to be,
And you want to be the person who can change my belief.
You want to see me heal,
And you are my reminder every year,
That I have grown in ways I did not expect,
And I have gone further than I planned to transgress.
You are my biggest support,
And my favorite cohort,
In the mischief this life presents,
And the actions of which I do not repent.
You are my best friend,
And I should listen to you in the end,
Since all you want for me is to see,
The person that you love me to be.

I Could Hate Myself

I could blame this all on my mother –
My complete inability to be satisfied,
And my wish to be another,
Kind of person who holds pride inside,
For the person I can prove to be,
And the beliefs that I hold close to me.
I could wish that I were dead,
Due to the thoughts I cannot silence,
And the feeling of impending dread,
But that would be pious,
Manifesting my negative words instead.
I could be disappointed with myself,
And never applaud the things I do,
So that these negative feelings can be felt,
And I have nothing left to pursue,
Since I lack a belief in the strength I keep.
I could cry and yell and fall down again,
Leaving me a mess of unrecognizable emotion,
Feeling like my life is caving in,
And unsure how to begin again.
I could hate myself and all that I do,
Leaving everything to be disappointing,
And nothing to be true,
To the person I am avoiding,
And the actions I cannot undo.
I could despise the person I have become,
Leaving me with a world of hate,
And desperate attempts at feeling numb.
I could never let let this go,
And always allow disappointment to show.
I could make this true.
But in truth,
That is what I already do.

Yesterday I Was Depressed

It came out of nowhere with the dropping of a plant,
And I have no idea how it escalated from that,
To me laying on my floor for an hour,
Feeling like nothing was within my power to control,
And realizing that once again,
I was depressed on my bedroom floor.
It is a familiar feeling of numbness,
Since there are many times I have succumb to this.
It begins slowly,
But builds with time,
Until I look up and realize that it has all of me.
I try to put off the inevitable,
But it it will not relinquish its control,
And that’s when I end up on the floor,
Crying for no reason and staring with no purpose,
Wondering how I will continue to survive through this.
Since I will never know a day without depression,
And I will always feel like the world is crushing in.
I cannot shake this mental illness,
And I will never know what bliss is,
Since I am constantly infected with the negative.
My thoughts error on the side of suicidal,
And yet my hands remain idle,
Not willing to do anything about my pain,
Leaving me instead to feel insane.
Since there is nothing that should have set this off,
And yet effort is still an afterthought,
To sinking down in admittance of defeat,
And having recurring thoughts that my future is bleak.
I hate these words I speak,
Since they leave me sounding weak.
I hate that I have this illness,
Since it forces me to miss,
All the potential I had before,
It knocked me down to my bedroom floor.
I hate that I have no control,
Over this character trait that I deplore.
And most of all I hate that I am filled with so much dissatisfaction,
For a life that I attempt to fill with passion,
I make efforts to improve my state,
But in the end I cannot relate,
To the person I once believed myself to be,
One who was truly free,
From my fucked up view of reality.

Don’t Believe What You Are Told

I was told to ask What not Why,
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 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.