Poetry Depression Poems

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Details | Rhyme |
Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas, her wrists,
"I deserve the pain."
She shrugs and insists.

One day the brush will push down,
And it will cut so deep,
That this girl will fall
into an eternal sleep.

She doesn't remember how she started
What brought her interest to this,
How do you discover,
that cutting is your form of bliss?

No one would have guessed that she does it.
No one would have considered this one.
This girl is forever fighting a battle,
that she thinks the demons have won.

Her artwork is all over her,
Her beauty is on her thighs,
and if you look in her old trash,
you'll find her letters of goodbye.

Her masterpiece is quite disturbing,
Her masterpiece is a little gory,
Her artwork is her escape.
Let me tell you her story.

She compares herself to every person,
She is compared to each girl.
She thinks she's hideous,
And there's this boy that is her world.

She was bullied and picked on,
She was teased from head to toe,
Hard to believe that her best friend,
was her one and only foe.

Then later she disliked every little thing,
Her body, face and even her mind,
Soon she saw she was a failure,
and it was just in due time...

That this girl couldn't take it anymore
She'd decided she was done living this,
So one day she went home
and decided to end it.

Everyday for multiple days,
This girl would try to drown,
Hard to believe this girl at school,
never ever wore a frown.

Sometimes she'd just fall asleep crying,
Praying that she'd be enough,
Because she didn't want to leave her family.
She knew about their sweet love.

This girl found hope in small things eventually,
She soon would see this beautiful light,
and find a REAL best friend,
that helped her put up a fight.

Her masterpiece soon was leaving,
Her artwork was almost faded,
and it gave her a sick feeling,
the feeling of being jaded.

She found a boy that actually loved her,
And showed her love exists,
And this boy too had a masterpiece,
placed close to his wrists.

He related to her and she related to him.
She kissed his artwork and said he's not alone,
When she cut herself it hurt him,
Her masterpiece now wasn't just her own.

Her masterpiece effected others,
Her artwork wasn't just for herself,
She now had people, 
who saw her cries for help.

And then her family found out,
So then they saw the art too,
to them they were just scars,
To her they were the truth.

She's trying to be okay now,
She thinks she might survive,
Even though they didn't think
to take away the knives.

Copyright © Madison Marie | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010

Details | Light Poetry |
                 Like the UNICORN

At times I fear I am the mysterious of all animals
Like the Unicorn, I myself do not feel real
My inner beauty is the only thing to conceal
I am my own mythological creature
Roaming souls with a little will power to heal
Ages of my forgotten tear
Like the Unicorns  a prophecy so unclear
I compare your beauty to be the eyes of stare
I am a magical power so rare
Absorbing the energy of the sun into a spear
I appear like the wild horse
I have no feelings of real existence, my life with no compare
Embracing all memories to disappear

Wasting away absorbing nature's life
Haunted down by a hunters knife
Thousands of wolves hungry to eat me alive

Fallen legends and myth
Pondering in a past life who I am
I feel a  touch upon my bones
Am I he the Unicorn 
A horse with one horn
Unlike the Unicorn who fell to exist
My suffering  really does exist
How I wish everything was fake
To be like you hiding upon the mist

Like the Unicorn who is a horse with no horn
Like a nobody when my life slips into the abyss 
A depth of wishing to have never been  born
With the vision of  Heaven’s Realm with a Unicorn twist

Like the Unicorn who only exist in Legends and Myth.
I come and go like a blown kiss
Shedding tears feeling all alone
I want to be like the Unicorn who are bound to roam
Take me away from this wonders of thorns
Give me a magic Medallion to free myself from the pits
Infatuated with the gorgeous Unicorn
A passion among beauty is where I exist


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
The walls of the doctor's office
Are blue.
Blue is a color that's supposed to
Calm, to soothe.
The doctor and the nurse both have
Blue eyes.

They are telling me
About the magic pill
That will make 
All of my problems 
Go away...

The nurse asks,
"Don't you want to be 
Like everyone else?"
I don't answer...
Not immediately.
I ask if I can answer
Next time I come back.

I'm still thinking
Of those words...
Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
If I hear-
If I hear lines in my head
Chasing eachother around
Like hallucinations, 
Hear voices speaking poetry,
Is this what it means
To be schitzophrenic?

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
If I start speaking with a ryhthm then
To speak in iambic pantameter-
Is this like OCD behavior?-

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
If I stay up all night-
Have you ever stayed up all night?
Have you ever gone outside
And sat in your backyard 
At 3am and felt how... peaceful...
The darkness was- listened as
The wind whispered love songs
And watched the sky
Until the first light of dawn
Brushed the sky's cheek
With her fingers?
Did you look for words
To describe the first kiss 
Of sunshine?
I've always loved
To write about
The sunrise...

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
I haven't written poetry 
In a month but
I still can't sleep-

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
I haven't written poetry
In two months, and
I don't know why-
I don't think I can, 
I think-
Maybe my heart broke...
I don't care if I see
The sunrise...

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
I slept for 15 hours straight
But I'm not quite sure,
It doesn't feel like I ever
Really woke up-

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
I just want... to write.

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
I wrote a poem today...
I wrote about the sunrise.
I've always loved to write
About the sunrise.

Don't you want to be
Like everyone else?
I know I probably seem
Tired at the moment;
People have been
Telling me that-
I haven't slept much
For a few days or so,
I've been writing too much
People keep telling me
I look so happy.

The doctor asked me 
Don't you want to be 
Like everyone else?
...No. I don't.
But I didn't say this. 
I nodded like
They wanted,
And then wrote
It in a poem-
The one place
I never have to 

Copyright © Cameron Hartley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost

Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
The roses of September the first
They know the dance is almost over
Slowly the life shall bleed from the stem
Beauty shall wilt
The winds shall blow away the memories
Bagpipers four deep and six long
Shall march upon botanical grounds
In remembrance of those brave souls long ago
Stoic the march, the notes lingering in the air
Falling on the deaf ears, of the already departed
Two swords laid as the cross
Highland dances of youth,
Old photographs lieing burned in the trash

Marching forth, to old peoples applause
They march towards their own death
Overlook there, over the sea, look closer
Shall you see the dust that covers me?
Twenty four reasons to die
Yet here I am on the twenty fifth
Wishing for only one

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

There, on a sill of contentious decisions Glass shards sit waiting a wavering hand Reflective the memories wrapped ‘round the curtains Lost in a pane that she can’t understand Chilled calls the breeze through a jagged eviction Scenting the air neath a ceiling now stained Dampening dreams behind oven doors gaping Finding the pilot light has not complained Ripping out pages of scribbled delusions Day becomes night in the depths of her mind Chasing the echoes when no one will answer Begging each shadow for something to find Setting a table of rounded persuasions Watching fluorescents fade fast in her eyes Turning the knob towards a sorrowed direction Why is there none who react to her cries Loneliness peels back the layered condition Voices of reason have fled to her past Fearing the worst will come visit tomorrow Sensing the hour shall now be her last So many days and the roses need pruning Nary a movement is noticed inside Caught in his thoughts that her words had intentions If only those moments ignored would confide Desperate ink found in fingertip writings Penned by the demons left roaming her head Still haunts the question of fear never listened Death becomes art in the stanzas unread

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

Details | I do not know? |
You watch the tears fall from her eyes.
You see her walk out and away from the crowd.
You listen as she tells how unwanted and useless she is.
You hear her cry from the bathroom.
You watch her struggle to socialize.
You see her isolate herself from humanity.
You listen to her criticize herself.
You hear her fight against what might help.
You watch as she gets herself out of every social situation.
You see how uncomfortable she gets when someone speaks of her condition.
You listen to how she makes excuses.
You hear her say she is okay.
You just watch and see and listen and hear as she pushes her way through life.
And eventually, that may not be enough.

Copyright © Ainsley Castleberry | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Suicide Dolls

Tiss a maddening state of affairs
Why my lovers don’t gas themselves to death
Have they not the decency to assist my endeavors?
Is my future to be written in stone of no importance to them?
The public would breath and eat the words
Of all my little suicide dolls
If only, if only they would find the ovens
Yeast you have failed me in these dire moments
Let me rise above it all
With poetic verse
Sing to all my tragedies
My death and re-birth
In the gas chambers of poetic verse

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |
She writes her songs and her poems,
not one person know 'em.
She listens to the sound of her music,
she's stuck to it like a tick.

If someone took the time to listen,
her true colors would glisten.
She's put on a mask,
and hid everything when someone asked.

She was the type of girl who would always laugh,
making you wish it would last.
She was the type of girl who would smile the day away,
too bad it is no longer that way.

She is now the girl who is depressed,
I bet you're impressed.
Since no one could tell
that she was going through hell.

Everyone thought she was happy, 
when really, she felt crappy.
Everyone thought she was having the time of her life,
who would have guess her best friend was a knife?

She spent her days alone,
she seemed to do everything on her own.
Never once wanted help.
Thought she could do everything herself.

Then the day came,
when she lost the game.
She fell apart,
and everyone saw her broken heart.

They saw the way she overreacted.
Oh, if only you saw the way she acted.
She bruised herself, scratched herself, and made herself bleed,
no one knew what it was that she needed.

They saw her tears,
and that was what she feared.
They found out she wasn't okay,
oh, she hated that day.

Everyone found out about her secret,
and she wish they'd just forget,
but she knew they couldn't,
and that they wouldn't.

She left that town and started over,
no one knew she went undercover.
She said she got better,
when really... something else occurred. 

She secretly hurt herself,
and walked away from help.
Everyone thought she recovered,
when really, she was undercover.

She secretly wanted to get worse,
no one knew of course.
No one cared to ask,
if she was wearing her mask.

Now it's too late,
she locked the gate.
Killed herself,
everyone had forgotten she needed help.

Goodbye cold world,
this was a story of a girl
who once loved everyone
then feared who it was who won.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013

Details | Acrostic |
L-iving in a world of vast 
souls formed from 
another voided world,
E-ntering thru portals 
from their world to earth.
O-ozing spetacular smell 
and wail when the chips 
are down.
N-urtured from cradle to 
entity with a new world 
to face.
O-rganizes oneself for the 
task ahead,passing thru 
hurdles of life unabased 
and unabashed.
R-eaps the fruit of labor 
with joy or heavy heart.
A-ge sets in,mission 
accomplished or not will 
dawn on the entity.

I-n retrospect,he thinks 
about his childhood and 
how life was to him.

L-iving in confidence or 
shame,he bows his head 
in victory or defeat.
O-nly the taste of time 
will tell the durability of 
his achievements.
V-oid of preference the 
aim result bears the 
foundation for his lineage.
E-njoyment or lack lies 
with the works of the 
man,for there is no food 
for the slothful.

Y-oung ones,a stitch in 
time saves nine,make 
haste while the sun 
O-iling your lamb always 
like the ten virgins is the 
key to success.
U-rging you to shun peer 
pressure and focus on 
the course marked out 
for you by fate,so a 
fulfilled life you shall live.

An acrostic for you 
Leonora Galinita.

Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
There once was a day I would watch every airplane.
Praying you was on it to come take me away.
As a child I wanted you around until the day, you actually came.
The day you came is the day my life forever changed.
I remember as if it was yesterday when you physically violated me.
Mental visions as early as the age of eight, but old enough to vociferate.
Visualizing mental pictures in my mind while I am awake very aware of the improper abuse I take.
Your body on me feels something like an autopsy of a dead body.
While you lay on top of me as you press aggressively on me.
Against my will your force kept me still.
I am trying to understand if you recognize who I am.
I try to say no hoping you can comprehend; I am weakling as you apprehend.
Mentally and physically I became involuntarily your property. 
A main character in a horror story, and you were my predatory.
I asked “God why?” as I bare to stare into his eyes.
This is not thee love I seek; all I wanted was my father to love me, but not like this injustice of violation of my rights.
This love is not real; not the love I wished to feel.
As he tries to stick his tongue into my mouth too young to know what this is all about.
I grip my lips painfully tight as he tries to slip his tongue inside.
I close them tighter with all my might, as he whispers, “let me love you right” 
I beg him to leave as he pried my legs open with his knees my insides scream “somebody please help me!”
As he whispers how much he loves me I’m praying for God to just kill me.
I rather be dead then a man’s punching bag.
As I lay there my body was dead, and I laid my soul to rest.
I looked around the room and seen the Old Spice on the desk the same fragrance he wore around his neck.
The sun began to rise as he began to close my thighs.
In that moment in time I had made up my mind any man that ever say they love me was just telling lies.
I learned the hard way that love does not kill your inside; love does not take your pride.
A fatherless child I shall forever reside.
Every day that passes that little eight-year-old girl dies slowly inside.
Asking Jesus,” Why permit this?” and he slowly whispers…as I gently whimpers, “faith is the light that guide you through the darkness, my words reflecting as a lamp unto my feet.”
“Walk unto my path I’m here to carry the weak, come into me you are weary and overburdened. I will carry the pain you have obtained.”
“I am your father and you are my child you are never fatherless because I’m always around.”

Copyright © twanna Irisha | Year Posted 2012

Details | Rhyme |

Impulsive or compulsive

Either way it's not conducive

Living with this disorder

Can't be good for my liver

Obsessions, when do they stop?

Compulsions, when do I stop?

Let me illustrate and reiterate

My demons make me infuriated

To the point, man, I really want to escape this

Live everyday like your last?

These hours go by fast

Trying to obliterate every ounce of the past

Always with the imagery and self coping insanity

That broke me and continues to break me.

Another day, no not another day

I just got out, please let me stay away.

Copyright © Stefan Cote | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
The 100 Year War

I rise
Mighty and strong
Armor plated and ready for battle
I shall behead the infidel
I shall conquer the evil doers
I am a warrior
Both great and bad

I am a warrior, and
I am sad
Tears fall upon my sword 
I know not why
This great warrior why do I cry?

I can battle an army and rise the victor
Yet I can not rise out of me bed
I am sad and lethargic
I am weak in the knee
I am depressed
To much sadness in me

Lovers a plenty
Conquered lands and treasures
I have it all
Yet the sadness invades
The depths of me soul

I give my heart to all that I love
I feed the poor
From the spoils of my wars
Yet here I am, I think a kind soul
Burdened in darkness
Depression is my hole

My love I know this seems bizarre
You have all you wish, a rising star
A Black Knight with honors flying high
To you I say forgive me please
For battles you never shall see

I lie down
In our garden of roses
Thorns to make me feel more than I do
For the darkness robs us both
For me to feel you

Good by my love

Notes: Anyone for has suffered depression, knows that a 100 year war is nothing  compared to battling depression.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Verse |
Financiers feel superior to farmers
and pundits have it over poets.
All to the good because if you think America's
doing just fine, don't skip to the poetry reviews.
Our enemies are barbarous, our allies duplicitous
but our smart bombs are smart - that's how they found you.

Dad said all wars are resource wars. Follow
the money. The world needs more order, nothing
less than Nazis, never may the anarchic man's thoughts
be my thoughts, each shove sends a ping,
shields urge on shields, helmets helmets, we can be
the reigning kings between the last empire and the next

or implement a vision of collective deliberation
and binding agreements. Can China's navy
be harnessed to ensure free passage through
the South China Sea? We'll see how
things work out in the next generation.
In the meantime should I read Henry Kissinger's meditations?

He who thinks poetry's effete
probably considers Darwin a geek and Einstein
a postal clerk. Containment means leaving space
for the passionate and zealous to face themselves
and giving them missiles that don't work.
Slowing everyone down until one thing's done well -

governance or sustenance or brotherhood.
When violence comes to the neighborhood
the hierarchy will hold or fold, it is then the peace work proves relevant.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space
for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.

By that what is meant. Sitting still and thinking deeply
on the relation of anger to coercion,
systems for correcting the decisions of earlier presidents.
We're required to report incidents of depression
to a doctor because you're a valued member of of our community,
or so insignificant no one notices or cares.

How necessary the interface of war and poetry!

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
The world use to taste like oyster's, and my hunger reflect the possible.
"Why I cann't see my shadow, cause my destiny goes forward, into the
Been out and about for too long, all within me are sad songs.
I can not see my shadow, trying not to look back leave's me
constanily along.
"Along to face the battle's, the battle's of, Why I cann't see my shadow's".
Its Been a long journey, this road that leads to homeliness and despair.  A
road without future endeaver, a road I wouldn't reccomment to noone, a
road with danger, a road were noone care's.
Drug's are not for everyone, either is hardluck. I wonder if tomorrow will
there be provision for all to make a "buck". ($$)
'Yes-yess..(yess).... I been so-down lately, No my spirit is of the sanity of being poor.
"Why I cann't see my shadow, cann't explain it, even if answer's of
crying to feel the world, is in response once more. Been so-down lately, Why
want oppourtunity come knocking at my back-door.
Not the front, no dare not make others think, favors is clearily my best friend.
When I am ashame to face the world today, my shadow will not follow me,
when I am weak, and excuse's are to no end, then I do see a shadow, but
it is the shadow of someone who once was a "friend".
The world use to taste like marshmellow's, and I didn't have to beg.
The job market was plentiful and so was happiness and worshippers to no bitter
end.  "Why cann't I see my shadow", there is joy at the end of the rainbow.
"Why I cann't see my shadow", are the pain in my life so severe.
One day I know I will get back up, One Day (when) it happen, maybe I will be
there to see if my shadow is able to show my tear(s)...

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2010

Details | Alliteration |
We always knew Miss Daisy
Was crazy. 
The way she said things 
Then played with her bangs. 
Her shirt
Covered in dirt
She let her head fall back 
And scream, "that was wack!"
But Miss Daisy, 
And her crazy
Didn't like to leave. 
And me being naïve
Thought it was okay. 
To say
"Miss Daisy, 
Just lately,
You've been 
Awfully thin.
Maybe we need 
To feed."
Miss Daisy
And her crazy. 

Copyright © Brianna Hollister | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

I continue to feel
the searing pain. 
ever constant.
so keen.
Not the kind
    that heals fast,
      open wound that closes.
But, the kind that stays vulnerably
       with the passing years.
Three decades 
        and still counting.

Woe to this pain!
With laden anguish, 
The heart's bemoaning.
Thinking it was born
     without a name.
Only to find then
     at a much later time;
giving in.
Oblivious now.
    that my bosom groans,

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |

They tried to make you go to Rehab...
you said...
Shoulda' packed your bags ta' Rehab...
you wouldn't 
 boo-hoo hot-mess

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |
Where else do you want to mock me? That my Sister is a Whore? And she owns miserable men under her Lure? Or is it that I have intense body Odour? Maybe you will taunt the clothes I once wore which you already tore. So, what else is it? That I snore? Or that a drunkard is my Family's Core? Is there anything more? Or something laughable you really saw? Perhaps, you just realize I'm poor? Please anymore flaw? If you're bitter, it isn't my fault don't use me as the Salt on your wounds. I know, I stimulate the stretching of your Catapult and my smile makes you want to join a Cult Even with the Insult, never forget that I'm mere Human who can halt; despite not giving a damn just to make you understand that I'm simply a friend.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |
I can't look...

I watch in disgust
As the scale goes up,
And my stomach drops.

The scale is both my best friend 
And my darkest enemy.
It can either save me,
Or be my utter demise.
But either way,
It doesn't lie.
It always speaks the truth,
No matter the consequences,
No matter the circumstances.

Too much
Too fat
Too imperfect

That's what the voices whisper,
Quietly wreaking havoc in my mind.
Silently breaking me down,
From the inside out.

The mirror breaks
As my fist collides.
Hundreds of crystal pieces,
Stained red with crimson liquid.
The image of myself long gone.

Too much
Too fat
Too imperfect

They echo in my head,
Relentlessly breaking my dreams,
Until they're just like the mirror;

Too much
Too fat
Too imperfect

The ringing in my ears
A mere whisper,
Compared to the sound
Of my breaking heart.

Copyright © Aisha Abdelfatah | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
A disease intrinsic and quiet infesting a soul which submissively accepts presenting self inflicting suffering to the body which covers it. The record keeper of happiness loses his work from gross idleness. The fuel of laughter even with words and lines so sophisticated making the inanimate change state cannot drag a drop of smile from this soul so wary and pressed. Company is replaced with tears and all feelings, compressed into one. Cracking an egg shell from its edges is simpler than distinguishing its moods. What a soul! Why were you created when nature was sad? Why were you formed when the gods were asleep? Why were you blessed when the daughters of cheerfulness were drunk? The cloth of loneliness and the perfume of silence, you need to unwear no matter how hard. This will put on the light of proper existence for you to bathe in the spring of Life's beautiful varieties!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Darkness falls over me all around..
It helps drown out the loud sound..
Of pain and heartache because I feel okay in the darkness..
And trying to pull me in to light just makes me feel less..
Because in darkness you don't have to talk, go any place or even look nice...
You just curl up and do your thing without needing advise..
I will take darkness over light anytime.
Just because you are in the darkness it is not a crime..
You can still meet me here if you feel the need..
And there is no dress code, subjects not welcome or language to watch indeed..
Darkness falls in my eyes and heart every single night..
Trying to stay out of the darkness has just become too much of a losing fight..
The battle is tiring so instead of continuing the battle every day and night and just..
Will let the darkness fall into me and let it take what it must..
Buffy Sammons 8/3/15

Copyright © Buffy Sammons | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
wake up to serendipity
ignorant and unknown
shaken and not stirred
blond can be bond

Reality, metaphor and cliche
cheesy juvenile decay
Love, care and hate
past the use by date

of fights and torment
and well deserved lament
salute to the solitary reaper
with Metallica... I disappear

Copyright © Anwar Hussain | Year Posted 2009

Details | Blank verse |
Here’s what I’m thinking now 
at the end of the world: 

There are no atheists in foxholes— 
no theists in politics. 
If knowledge is power, 
and power corrupts, 
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? 

Does it matter that I didn't’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

There’s a poetry reading tonight 
whence I’I'll chide other poets 
who don’t sit alone. 
I won’t bring up death 
but I might have to breathe, 
even into a mike 
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo 
maybe even a wince or two. 

Just maybe I’I'll talk about love 
and how following your heart is like following a dog— 
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs). 
But how many times have I used that line 
since the story I wrote about you, 
a witty and sexy and fictional you? 
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you. 

I won’t recite it from memory 
because I don’t think about you that much anymore, 
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer 
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me, 
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes? 

I don’t remember your eyes 
except they are blue. 
And I don’t remember you, 
not even when I smell cucumber and apple, 
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed 
or when you walk through the door 
happy to see me; 
even then I don’t remember you. 
Does it matter that I don’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

How about a few one-liners 
for the end of days?— 

Depression is self-awareness, 
which you’d know if you were; 
I need Ritalin to listen to you, 
Lithium to hug you, 
Viagra to feel you, 
and Valium to sleep. 

All you need 
is me standing there, waiting at home 
with turns of phrase and word plays 
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand 
but want to buy as much as I can 
and how I love celebrity gossip 
and detest poetry slams 
and find rhyming trite 
except when I am. 

Hypocrites can still be right, 
which you do understand 
because you nod at my nonsense 
about fighting the man. 

But now, at the end of all things— 
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read, 
and you’re just sitting there, smiling 
asking me to pass the bread.

Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010

Details | Verse |
you won’t listen to me, so i write to you on my arms. 
this one says i needed you and you weren’t there. 
this one says i’m bleeding but you don’t care. 
i wrote you this one out of despair, 
seemed like you always had to be at some other somewhere,
and it hurts, because it’s me you’re dismissin’, 
with no time to listen, just need your attention, 
it’s your touch i’m missin’, look me in my eye,
i know you see my letters, so why don’t i get a reply?
i guess it’s worth it just to try, 
to get you to notice me just one more time, 
write you just one last line, 
but i’m runnin’ out of time ‘cause i’m runnin’ out of ink, 
needin’ more time to think, 
but i don’t have it, so i sign my last letter and address it to you,
i hope this one gets through

Copyright © Erin Evans | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
What it is, this pain that kills my joints
This strange duvet of darkness while
I try to brush my teeth
What it is, the distance to my wheelchair
seems to have increased
in this small room
What it is, this self-inflicted isolation
This fear of seeing people
and of losing them

Swimming in a dark damp pool
Hearing people talking yet
Can't see them, here's the fool
That wants to dance but stays in bed

Splendid colours hurt instead
What is not the wish to block
While at the same time all is gone
And nothing stays in harmony
They speak and I hear their concern
It does not concern me, still it gnaws
My consciousness, my shame, my guilt
I better not be here, they better
off without me

Don't worry, I'm only showing you
The me I am when I'm depressed
But everyone is not going through
The same, we're different: at best

We share the overwhelming sadness
That has no words enough to describe
What it is. But this is what it always is:
Don't leave us please, for even at the
point of our deepest rejection of you,
it really is a cry to stay!
How contradictory we are

This is for me, it is for every person who
Is right now in dire need.....
Here are my hugging arms 'round you
Until you're back on your two feet.

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
I have found my refuge
in the arms of death
Take away this soul
the life I used to have
To live in darkness
in the middle of nowhere
Standing in adversity
with noone to hold me
This grief I felt
has tortured my brain
Great deal of misfortune
to carry this burden..

~Chrisna Vergara

Copyright © Chrisna Vergara | Year Posted 2017

Details | Verse |
Poetry stew.

My poetry stew has ingredients of goo

The ass end of a warm drink

The chaser for an anti depressant capsule

A five o' clock shadow 

A hangover and panic attacks

The tears of a psychiatrist 

Blood from the hands of an ugly poet 

A terrified suicide 

A kiss never sober 

New York City blues and a trip to a toilet after every drink

A friendly goodbye 

A stool at the bar with your faith written all over it

Cum soaked napkins that turn yellow like your dying skin 

Pathetic messages from people who don't know what you've been through 

My fellow punks and beats, modern day philosophers 

A strait jacket that fits

A functioning psychotic 

A poet with messy hair who hates his reflection

Get me out of here 

The lovely taste of a depressed man

Everyone gets a shot 

Everyone gets a taste 

Everyone can have a drink

Enjoy or be sane.

Copyright © Feo The ugly drunken poet | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |
How many fake smiles
Have you put on before?
When inside your beating heart
Is broken and torn.
How many tears
Has your pillow held at night?
When you lay there, broken,
Hidden from everyone's sight.
How many attempts
At your life have you taken?
They don't see that you're broken,
Not only bruised but emotionally beaten.
Pain is inevitable, 
These feelings you hold.
But you'll tell them you're fine
'Cause that's what you've been told.

Copyright © Palen Drew | Year Posted 2014