Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.138.189.0
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
My depression doesnt really stay as a single thing. 
It doesnt have a name.
It doesnt really stay as anything.
Its a reflection of the skies, the rain ,the grains of sugar left over on my lips from the lick of the spoon i stirred into my tea.
My depression isnt the lack of happiness.
Its the lack of feeling. 
Its the lack of the warmth of the one hug  you waited for for years from that one person. 
its not the want to lay in bed with icecream and the radio on for hours. 
My depression is the rainstorm that never seems to leave the side of my bed. 
Cool and icey, with wetness, not from my tears, but the subtle ideas and nonesense that blankets my thoughts in a sleepless night.  
Its the fear of the things i didnt do but have yet to do. 
My depression is the constant I love yous with the constant replies of 
"Im tired" or " I knows" or " maybe next time".
Its the unforgiving notion that my body will not do to me as i did for it. 
The measurements on a piece of string with black marks that want to be tighter and less snug. 
The fingers around my wrists as i eat my meals to hide the shame of the floods inside my empty body.
Its the 45 minutes of saying ill be ready in 5 minutes, every 5 minutes.
The piles of clothes i bought but could never let myself wear because of the empty stares i never got. 
Its the sickness I cant call out of work for. 
Its what people say," I hope you get better" 
and you reply with " i dont know what better is, or was or will be" 
but never utter, just smile. 
My depression is the smell of the alchohol in the cold medicine on my lips, crackled and crippled in the morning, sunken eyes and a huff under my breathe. 
Its the bowl of poison wrapped in candy wrappers and toys in a dentists office.
My depression is a place. 
Its a place that isnt really a place.
Not a person nor a being. 
Its not the psychiatrist telling you to spill the heart you once had. 
Its the doctor with lowered eyes and a frown saying " Life isnt for everyone." 
Its the anger of the writings on the papers you burnt 
or the fire from the unwiped tears off your pale cheeks. 
My depression isnt a thing. 
Its not the explainable.
It isnt whats wrong , what isnt wrong.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required