bewildered that this text
this forgotten scribe
uplifts the feelings
i try so hard to bury inside

this scribbled stanza
relieves pressure and pain
slowly allowing me to
stop reliving the shame

words once read
in black and white
submerged in emotions
high, light, and bright

letting your painted face
in my memory vault fade
ebbing in the distance
while these words continue to invade

funny is that our feelings exist
so playful and irrational
yet followed zealously
feels greater than feels, professional

*s.q.

you were not a verse
or a stanza
or a meaningless jumble
of half-hearted words
and you were not just
the crossed-out name
in the back of my book

you were the ray of light
wedged between the pain
and how the colorful feelings
that decorated my mind
could never be put into words
no matter how hard i tried

you were never smudged gray
or ink stains on skin
and you were more than the substance
that spilled itself onto paper
because to me, you meant so much more
than a collection of words,

you were the story

Ah America, the land of the free,
Where you are supposed to be living happy.
But not all Americans seem to be able to see,
Why some of us feel so **** ******.

“Oh, you’ll get through this don’t worry!”, they say.
“Something affecting your feelings can’t be a disease.” they preach.
These sayings are pretty stupid and cliche,
And it just shows that understanding depression is far out of their reach.

I have no sympathy for the people who say these things to me,
Because they don’t have a ******* clue how depression destroys you.
How would you like to feel completely worthless or to feel like an amputee?
This is way more than simply feeling a little blue.

I feel like the part of my brain that should tell me to be happy is missing,
And it was replaced by a voice telling me that slitting my wrists is the next best thing.
Now matter how hard I fight it that voice will be in the back of my head just hissing,
Telling me the blood dripping down my arm is worth the sting.

Depression is like having an obnoxious mean friend,
Who you try to hide from everyone until it is too obvious he’s here.
No matter how hard you try to shake him you end up making amends,
And instead of letting people try to help you just try to disappear.

Depression takes you away from everyone who loves you,
It isolates you and traps you in the corner.
And slowly every hateful thing it whispers to you becomes true,
The you that was there before is now gone and you mourn her.

You will never be the same person as you were before you met depression,
You will be a living person trapped in a dead girl’s shell.
You will feel tired and angry from all of that repression,
And living this way alone feels an awful lot like hell.

How long will it take for people to realize this isn’t “just a phase”?
How many have to hang from their closet for people to understand?
Depression lasts forever it’s not a few ******* days,
And suicides are caused by depression’s twisted evil hands.

A person who is murdered by depression is not a coward,
And they sure as hell are not selfish that’s for sure.
They felt completely abused and overpowered,
And to them their struggle had no other cure.

I think it is time for the world to get a couple tips,
Depression is real and it is alive.
You cannot tell someone to “get a grip”,
They don’t need to be reprimanded they need to thrive.

Many legends there be back in days of old;
Legends of bold knights upon their noble steeds.
This be a tale starring a knight and his steed
As one and the same.

'Twas in the Renaissance city of Poitiers
The prodigy of a holy knight was born;
Sir Nathanëal of the Salomon bloodline,
Lineage of victors.

He bore the heart and voice of an archangel
And the loyalty of a priest to his God.
No other horse he rode but his first and last;
Dear "Divinitus."

Alas, his loyalty had cost him dearly
In the midst of the Battle of Moncontour.
Thus came the end of Nathanëal Salomon.
Or so it had seemed.

By the hands of benevolent sorcery,
Nathanëal and Divinitus lived again,
This time sharing a peculiar physique
Of both man and horse.

Thus, blessed with fur of white and a mane of gold,
Well-equipped with lightweight armour and claymore,
He walked the outskirts of France slaying evil
As both knight and steed.

So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild ****." By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.

my notebooks are empty
because i do not write
i only memorise your moves
and poetry happens at sight

You were totally something else. Like a calm respite overcoming an instance of excitement. Magic and other prime words that can dictate the inarticulate adjectives that was this afternoon. Happiness and pleasure. A coexistence. To coexist. Soy.

A lot of time spent
having miscellaneous conversations with the air.
Even stupid questions like "how's your day" acting as if it'd give an answer, or, even more,
a whisper of inspiration
It's an obligation, or, maybe a delegation, or, a confirmation?
that we will create a masterpiece before insane peace
With a piece of our minds becoming a little less peaceful by the day.
Soon our minds will turn into violent catapults hurling out sentence after sentence making our paper bleed
                                                     Black, Blue, Red, Gray
Joining a cult created by the letters we created ourselves
falling into the abyss these stanzas and paragraphs invite us into
And don't get me wrong, it sounds terrible, but it's home.
There's no place like it.
Where these words are so much more than words,
they're family.
But frequently, we get into arguments that erupt into something sinister
and our desks become littered with papers that wilt and wither into nothing more than liters upon liters
of a type of alcoholic beverage that'll tempt us into becoming outspoken drunkards
But that's the goal:
*to be outspoken.