The Saddened Chronicle: Depression

Depression is the gun that is never20151207_165649 (2)
Fired, simply because I am to tired
To pull the trigger, cold metal against
My head I only wish there was a rest

Instead of the never ending motions
Of life, future weighed on the mind
Terrified of what others will find in
The vulnerability of my eyes, dripping

Truths like poison and the noise of the
Quiet is the only reprieve, it never lasts
The week is long, 365 moments I’m not
Strong enough to live them all, around

200 I break and fall to pieces, allowed
A few hours to pick myself up again before
There are messages from friends, talking
The gun from my hand and interlinking

Fingers with mine as I pretend everything
Is fine, and for a while I convince myself
It’s true until I notice the grenade being
Held by glue to my palm, and by damning

Heaven I end up in the confession box, a
Little lost and disorientated until my sins
Are forgiven and the cycle begins again
My bones are made of lead and I’ve said

This so many times my mouth is numb
And I’ve come to the conclusion that
Words are wasted things on deaf ears
Fighting for years for attention I didn’t

Think I deserved, the therapist says I don’t
Know my worth and gives me permission
To count my woes to the tick of a clock
I’ve never had a rock before and there is

A pillar standing in front of me, too late
Unfortunately, and her words are wasted
On my deaf ears, blasted to shreds from
Centuries of ignorance, there is no bliss
In that, and sleep…

…sleep calls to me as soon as I wake and
I struggle to rationalize the mistake of
Getting out of bed to fight because I am
Exhausted of the countless nights thinking
Tomorrow I will be a soldier but my bullet

Proof vest is full of holes and blood is pooled
By my feet, I just never noticed defeat like
Everyone else, and I want to demand some
Time to myself because my every action has

Been for everyone else but I was never allowed
To be selfish and I wish things were different
And I didn’t have to walk on with sunken eyes
And blistered feet and war songs playing on

Repeat, and at 200 I fall, pick myself up
And begin it all over again.

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