Depression, poem, Poetry, rain

Water From the Sky

I love the rain and I love its sound.
Like rhythmic drumbeats as it falls around.
Pitter, patter, from the roof and the ground.
It creates its own music that can calm and astound.

I love the rain and I love the shapes it can make.
As random droplets stream down the window pane,
It begins to take form, you’ll see a dragon or a snowflake.
You can see a face, or an overhead map of the terrain.

I love the rain because it can trigger emotions.
Emotions that we store away and release on rainy occasions.
Memories also resurface without our intention.
The rain makes us vulnerable, without asking for permission.

In times like these I question the things I love most.
For the rain is digging up feelings of regret and loss.
The rain spins the reel of photos and memories that I’ve cherished, yet lost.
I feel betrayed and toyed, like the only reason it exists is for a miserable cause.

The rain dampens my mood and makes my thoughts slow down.
The rain brings gloom into my world and it makes me wear a frown.
The rain makes me venture the darkness of the dungeon I have within.

It shows me a boy covered in bruises and mud,
A skinny and short lad who’s an unattractive stud.
It shows me a boy with erratic black pupils,
Fervently scanning the environment for something to kill.

It shows me a boy who has cuts on his wrist and forearm,
A definitive sign of self-loathing and self-harm.
It shows me a boy who likes the dark and gloomy corners of my mind,
A boy who chose to be abandoned, isolated and left behind.

It shows me a boy with tears flowing down his eyes,
While having a maniacal grin I could only hope was a smile.

But though the rain seems to torture me inside,
I still love it and from it, I will never hide.
For it also hold memories of love and peace.
It shows a boy playing and laughing, a boy who is at ease.

A boy who is happy showering in the cooling drops.
A boy who is positive even though his life has seemed to stop.
A boy who describes rain to wash away the stain,
Of yesterday’s heartache, guilt and pain.

The rain holds both end of the spectrum and two sides of the extreme.
That’s why I love the rain because it plays my life on a hazy screen.

Alone, Depression, loneliness, lonely, poem, Poetry, reality, sad childhood

(1 verse, 4 lines) – #13

Since I was a child, my growth has been spurred by sorrow.
Now that I’ve grown, I’ve lost more than I could borrow.
Seems I am bound to a demon’s path and tomorrow,
I’ll face the day with only me and my shadow.

Depression, effects of money, honesty, poem, Poetry

The Truth About Drinking

I’d be lying if I told you I’m not a drunkard anymore.
In reality, I’m such a liqouor obssessed man whore.
I know that I should resist this destructive vice.
But it is the only thing that makes me relax and revise.

Revise my thoughts and think about deeper things.
Though at the end of the day I’m still stuck in this stupor.
I can’t help but think I have a problem with this kind of thinking.
But who the hell cares? I’m just a nobody drinking.
Drowning myself in the arms of an alcoholic rapport.

I thought I’m out of this circle, I thought I’m out of this loop.
But reality tells me I just ran out of a group.
A group of money where I can drink to my heart’s content.
I’m not talking about the people, just a poor effort and attempt.

Attempt to try and conceal what I really am.
And who I am is an alcoholic fan.
A fan for the beverages that numbs my senses.
An addict to the substance that fogs my lenses.

Depression, Growing Up, honesty, Inspirational, monster inside us, poem, Poetry, suicide

An Open Letter To Suicide

Dear Suicide,
I am here to tell you that I will not abide.
I don’t believe in your promises of peace,
Because I know that you want to get yourself a piece.

A piece of myself
That you will store in a jar.
You will then put it on top of a shelf
And leave it to gather dust like a dilapidated car.

I’m here to tell you to stop knocking at my door.
I’ve heard your sales pitch and I can’t take it anymore.
I hate repeating myself like many times before.
I might become enraged and go Bloody-freaking-Roar.

I’m here to tell you in the most generous kind of way,
That you are nothing but trouble every single day.
Simply put, you suck in more ways than one.
You’re also not a solution to a problem that has managed to overrun.

Overrun and control the hearts of many.
You’ve led plenty of lives in perpetual misery.
You’ve left millions of scars to those who answered your call.
Truth be told, you’ve caused the most insidious deaths of all.

Now I know that you’ll harass me for the rest of my life,
But I can’t let you control me and make me pick up a knife.
Honestly, if you were in front of me,
I’d force you to pick up a metaphorical gun.
Make you put it on your head and watch you pull the trigger for the pun.

Now, I don’t want to end my letter on a sad notion.
I’d want both of us to move on without any bad emotions.
This is the part where we go our seperate ways.
So I’d like to say fuck you and have a nice day.

bad luck, Depression, Disappointments, helplessness, mark of Cain, poem, Poetry

An Imprint of Mortification

I feel like I have the Mark of Cain.
A God-given curse that puts everything in vain.
No matter what you do or how hard you try.
Though you sweat again and again,
The soil that you toil will forever be dry.

Cain was cursed as punishment for his deed,
And a tremendous punishment he did receive.
A long life of hardship was in store.
Wandering aimlessly to a foreign shore.

Flash forward to my life of grief and torment.
A life where there is no such thing
as an opportune moment.
A life where I am hailed the ignoble king.

The ruler and lord of dreadful luck.
A life where fate decided not to give a fuck.
Almost every chance has been pulled away and plucked.
Opportunities I struggled to dig up from the muck.

I’ve swam through the river of blood
and fought the monsters that inhabits it.
I’ve crossed hanging bridges and scorching cities
so I could satiate the need of my gastric pit.
But the deluge of misfortunes are too much of a flood.

Now it seems there is nothing left for me,
as another chance once again eluded me.
I cup my face in my hands and somberly die,
as I deeply exhaled a defeated sigh.

Hopelessness is an emotion of great magnitude.
It brings a person to his knees, no matter how positive his attitude.
I now tire of eluding fate’s cruel grasp,
so I despondently stare as it tightens the clasp.

I feel as though I have the Mark of Cain.
Protected from death, but not from pain.
Forced to live a life where chances slip by.
Cursed to live this life, wishing I could die.

Depression, insomnia, poem, Poetry

Lights Off, Eyes Open

‚ÄčI survived another sleepless night in my bed.
I survived the ordeal without having to cry or beg.
I guess when this kind of stuff happens a lot,
Your body becomes attuned to the consenquences it brought.

I’ve written a couple of poems about my insomnia.
Though I’ve never really tackled what causes it.
Looking back right now, I think it’s because of my mental dystopia.
A topic I rarely open up to and I’ve hid the reasons a bit.

One of the reason is probably because I’m a mess.
My life is stagnant which makes me angry and pissed.
It might be because I can’t find myself in a state of bliss.
I feel as though I’m cursed instead of being blessed.

Another reason would be my disorganized brain.
My grey matter which brings up nothing but pain.
I try my best to stay positive, optimistic and to think that I’ll someday gain,
The things that’ll make me happy despite my ordain.
But life just shows me that I’m covered in stains,
And that my life is simply a worn-out and rusty chain.

Another one would be my nightmares,
Which creeps up on me when I rest.
They bring nothing but grief and though I give them a fierce glare,
It’s not enough to stop them from their protest.

My nightmares scare me to the point,
That I think it’s better that I don’t sleep in this joint.
I think that when I sleep, one day I’ll stop breathing.
But at least that would be a peaceful way of dying.

What keeps me up as well are my suicidal thoughts.
The thoughts about wanting to kill myself aren’t pleasant at all
And at times, they make me feel so insignificant and small,
That I just want to go to a corner and curl up like a ball.
It’s not an everyday occurence, but it’s something I have long fought.

The morning comes and with it, so does a new day.
Who knows, maybe I’ll end up sleeping sometime today.
And when I wake up, I wouldn’t feel so down and astray.
Maybe I’ll end up feeling okay.