D*pr*ss**n

I am not the best candidate for this,

I realize, now.

At the mere mention of its name,

I wince.

I listen to its patrons’ confessions

and become the sinner.

“Show me your wrists,” I cry,

and my own burn like a twisted stigmata.

They are not martyrs, no; they are not God.

And yet they become a sacrifice.

“To be or not to be?” That is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler to suffer or die,

they do not yet know.

I know.

But their blindness infects my eyes

and I wonder at the fragility

of being noble.

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3 thoughts on “D*pr*ss**n

  1. My wrists are my “battle scars”. And though I’ll never be proud of the thing I almost did, I’ll always be proud of making it through. “To be” is the only way to go. The only thing worse than powering through the dark pit that life sometimes is, is fading into oblivion, into nothingness, into just being a little bloody inconsequential speck in the history of mankind among millions of others, who chose “not to be” even before you were born.

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    1. Dang you’re getting metaphysical on me!! I wrote this poem to show how other people’s indecision over life and death and their suicidal moments affect my own mental illness, even though I am far past being suicidal now. I hate how other people’s issues affect me so deeply since I can no longer encourage them or mentor them without being sucked in.
      I’m so glad you made it through 🙂 I didn’t write this poem to insult writers with suicidal thoughts so I hope you didn’t get that meaning! It’s solely about how mental illness affects mental illness.

      Liked by 1 person

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