Three Depression Bouts

Short poesy about the days that stretch for eternity. Old and bad. Self-harm themes.

Today~

maybe yesterday,

yesteryear,

whenever we stole a chance~

we drew two things on our wrists:


         a dashed line across,
         a dashed line going down.

On the first we wrote Hospital,
On the second we wrote Morgue.


~X~


Sometimes, he has to wonder all the times they mistook his nervous hics for laughter,

The I’m in Hell, help me’s for I’m fine’s,

His long sleeves for just chills,

And his drowsiness for one that mere sleep can cure.

He wonders...

He wonders....

Eventually, he knows, he won’t be wondering anymore.

So there’s no point in now, now is there?


~X~


He’s no writer,

but he takes 500 sheets of paper

and writes Help Me on every last sheet.

Tacks ‘em on his walls

for his mother to see.

But she comes in and cleans.

And doesn’t notice a thing,

because the only papers

were in his report card Ds

and smiles that don't even sink in a nanometer.