This Thing We Call DepressionThere's a story I'd like to tell,More Like This
A story of a girl who was diagnosed.
Diagnosed with a terrifying thing,
Something that would threaten her life for years to come.
Something that she could never escape,
No matter how she ran,
No matter how she struggled.
This diagnosis was a horrific thing to the girl,
Although, not surprising at all.
The symptoms had swallowed her for days,
Months of this thing inside of her.
This thing that we call
There are people who tell her,
"You're only sad."
However, that isn't the case.
See, she was never diagnosed with sadness.
Everyone knows sadness.
She was never diagnosed with emotion.
Everyone knows emotion.
She was never diagnosed with temporary heartbreak,
Everyone knows all those things.
She was diagnosed with something much, much worse.
Since then, she's suffered with such a terrible thing...
But for days..
Months of this <
Open Heart SurgeryI've got ink throbbing through fissured veins,More Like This
poisoning every atom of my soul.
"Bite your tongue," they say.
How I'd love to chew the damn thing off
and suck down every filthy syllable
just like the rotten bone marrow it is.
They'd all watch as my body spontaneously combusts
and becomes nothing but convoluted karma.
And so I wrote,
Teach me the ways of ripping out a human heart,
and stitching it onto ink-stained parchment."
The answer that came was rasped from a cauterized throat:
"Read your future in the collapsed palm of the stars;
find the abandoned pulse of your lionhearted muse;
steal their conformed scalpel and make it your own."
Updatesi have been accepted for my collage art course fuck yaw! also gettin myown place soon, shits goin good for onceMore Like This
it won't, i know that.Let me tell you a story. Let me paint you a picture.More Like This
It’s dark and I’m alone and the wind is howling and once upon a time, I might have made this sound poetic. I’m crying, but it’s not pretty. I’m crying and my nose is red and my hands are shaking and the cigarette is limp between my scarred, calloused fingers. I once might have made this sound pretty. I might have made it sound desirable. Did you want a high? All you had to do was touch my skin, to feel your way down my sweat-slicked hips. Did you want to get buzzed? You just had to soak in the passion like alcohol and let your mind go wild. I used to have nothing but chaos to offer. Now I just have memories – do you want to take them?
But you won’t. I know that. I paid the price and life paid me. Whatever I once had is gone and it’s been replaced with this shaking emptiness. I can no longer get drunk. I just get sad. I sit at broken pianos and think about the music they used to make, li