Depression, Poetry

The Monster Underneath Your Bed



Every night there would be a ruckus.

There would be a rustle & a fuss.

Whenever I would turn off the lights,

Echoing sounds could be heard throughout the night.


In the darkness, I would see moving shadows.

I would then curl like a ball & hide under the pillows.

Whenever I close my eyes, images then arrive.

Past images making me feel more dead than alive.


The visions would range from mistakes to regret.

Reminding me I’m more useless than great.

It would replay times of discrimination

When I got called names of mass destruction.


When I was laughed at for every error.

When my life was a living hell & horror.

When my ideas were unnoticed & disregarded.

When my family made me feel irrelevant & discarded.


During this time it’s like I’m simply watching

The torments of my life that keeps on repeating

Itself no matter how much I try to stop it.

It just continues to play every miserable bit.


I would open my eyes only to see,

A darkness which is blinding as can be.

The shadows would still move from left to right,

Devouring every ounce of light.


I would then begin to hear

What seems to be a whisper to my ear.

With a soft voice saying: “Do you remember?”

“Do you remember your lies my dear?”


The voice would begin to narrate

In a spine-chilling tone & not irate.

All of my lies from half-truths to disturbing falsifications.

All of the times I twisted the truth for a mischievous justification.


The voice would fill my head with guilt.

It would make me feel that I’m nothing but filth.

That I deserve to be stepped on

Because I’m lower than dirt which fills me with depression.


As my self-esteem lowers,

The voice becomes louder

The shadows would grow bigger

& the visions are now darker.


As the sun rises

& as I return to my sense,

They would all get inside me.

They would continue to make me gloomy.


I stood & went to the mirror,

I stared at myself hoping to see something better.

But I heard voices of doom

Telling me to end it all & cut my own loom.


I saw a razor-blade by the sink.

When it shined, I no longer had to think.

I picked it up & began to slash away,

I bled the blues & I slowly drifted away.


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