as the red bird soared
lower over the valley--
i heard its lament.

it left a searing agony
that stirred a loyalty in me
i never knew i had.

lower your glass
and drink in solitude,
to a dormant, coiling hope.

When I look back upon the seasons
I see variant ages of myself
Always climbing gruesome mountains
And cursing false summits.

The thing I use to fight with
has turned against me,
and is winning the battle

The enemy—
my own mind
—is about to attack,
and I’m unable to act

And now all I’m left with
is scars that never seem
to be healing,
I never seem
to be healing

A handful of pills
in my palm,
their color is a sign
of truce, purity,
and surrender

And I surrender

So here is my shield,
my sword,
my soul,
I no longer want
to fight this battle

I break myself with each line
I write because I can’t make
pain rhyme with happiness

Each
Day
I
Pray
To slay
My depression.
Never been a quitter,
But I’d like to quit this obsession.
This obsession with my sadness.
And with my social status.
It’s like I fetishize the madness
Endlessly raging
Inside of my soul.
And I swear I don’t have
A place to just go
And lay low
For a while.

A place where I don’t
Have
To
Fake
A
Smile.

Writing is
my escapism,
It's as if
I was a director
in a movie,
creating stories
with the flick of
a finger,
changing meaning
and stirring
emotions into
a beautiful mess
of felt daydreams
Erasing mistakes in
a matter of seconds,
feeling the
sense of mixed relief
and inspiration.

...But I can't live in
my stories.
Because alas,
everything in life
never lives up to
my expectations.

Trapped in this prison with no way to escape
I look to the heavens to examine my fate
The road ahead will be tough and full of self hate
Tired of fighting the brick wall in my face.
To end it now and bring myself home
Or sit on this thrown depressed and alone.