The depression sinks into my skin,
I can feel it.
Evasive,
Persistent,
Uncontrollable.
Its causing a stain.
My skin feels as if its layered in grease,
Slick from the debris created by these feelings.
I’ll scrape my nails across my skin,
Trying to rid myself of the feel.
But the red scratch marks do nothing,
Except cause the feeling to ooze back out,
Escaping with the blood,
The tears.
The life that threatens me.
I can’t get the grit from under my nails,
So it stays there,
Worming its way deeper and deeper into my soul.
Causing an infection.
Which the doctor will diagnose,
With barely a glance.
But nothing can cure this.
The depression is too deep,
It can’t be cut out.
I’ve tried.
I can’t wash it away.
The water,
The poetry,
The vodka,
The paint.
Nothing works.
I’m slowly being suffocated,
In my own feelings,
My own Depression;
Is there nothing I can do to fix this?
Is there nothing I can do,
To make me feel clean.
To wash away the layer of dirt and grime,
To emerge new,
Fresh.
Prepared.
For anything that hits me.
Is there nothing I can do,
To rid me of the past,
That needs to be forgotten.
Is there nothing I can do,
To scrape the layer of self pity,
Of self loathing,
Of distrust from my scarred skin.
This depressing is overwhelming,
It drips from my overburdened body,
Like a taint upon those around me.
To those who know.
Its suffocating me,
Drowning me.
Enveloped in the feeling,
It will take over,
It will fill those empty voids inside of me,
Where memories have been blocked out.
A replacement of love.
Of a past to be cherished.
I know this will be the end of me.
The crowd turns to watch,
As my last hand slips into the void,
Into the puddle of depression.
I lose my grip upon life.
No one could stop to lend a hand,
Because I would just bring them down with me.
So they watch as I drown in my own emotions,
Pitiful,
I make them sick.
They’ll turn away.
But that puddle of despair,
That imprint of a life I leave,
Will haunt those who once cared.
Post je objavljen 22.06.2008. u 16:25 sati.