Depression Sad Poems | Examples
These Depression Sad poems are examples of Sad poems about Depression. These are the best examples of Sad Depression poems written by international poets.
Death is not the enemy you believe
And death isn't what you should fear
Death we all shall truly desire
For only death makes troubles disappear
Death is not some fancy illusion
Full of smoke and mirrors to deceive
Death offers to relieve your troubles
And will accept all it can receive
With death there's no worries or regrets
Any wrong or mistakes they slip away
They all vanish and bother you no more
There's hardly any cost you must pay
What death offers no one can match
Nothing else can do what death can do
You want peacefulness to fill your life
Isn't the cemetary peaceful to you
And so we wait.
As time stands still
we hold our breath and wait.
The rising of the sun,
the disappearing of the moon,
life goes on as we wait.
The pendulum in motion.
Time passing that we will never see again
yet still we wait.
We let time run through our fingers
as if we didn’t know its value.
Like watching money burn.
Sometimes it’s the thing to do
but… soon enough comes the day
we recognize our folly.
I sleep with shadows
hollow dreams of lustful death,
pleasure begets sickness.
Beneath my eyes lies doubt
begging, pleading for grace.
I walk with shadows
consuming objects, life forms, moments–
Illusions of control.
My image dissolves before I do,
my outline fades into absence.
I scream with shadows
giving life to the everlasting eclipse,
our shrouds staining pavements.
Wraiths of darkness rise and scatter
like roots of a dying tree.
I answer to Shadow.
Light brings color and joy.
Looking down at the darkness I cast,
light has no place in my world.
No one asks what depression tastes like
It tastes like a rag used to clean blood and vomit.
Overstimulated and numb, draining me like a faucet.
Sleep, wake up, over and over.
Sleep.
Wake up.
What am I doing this for?
Sleep.
Wake up.
My worth wavers in my mind.
My strengths
My weaknesses
Sleep.
Wake up.
There’s a part of me that despises myself
And the other part wants to reject that part.
At the end of the road
If the only thing waiting for me
Is a mountain of mental corpses,
what then
Sleep.
Wake up.
Are you depressed because you’re sad?
Or, are you sad because you’re depressed?
I hate myself.
I despise
myself.
That is the feeling I chose.
Time, cruel mistress.
A relentless march,
stealing, such an ugly word.
It prefers the term: harvest.
Moments, experiences, people.
Gone, in an instant.
Such things are gone forever.
Unless,
They live on.
Within hearts, memories.
For all its cruelty,
A humble teacher emerges in its wake,
guiding those who seek to understand.
Only then, we can forgive ourselves.
named most likely to succeed in school
every birthday was a reminder
he had let himself down
newly divorced, no home, no job, no family
Depression I can sense,
on the facial expressions of angst-ridden souls,
so immense
Yet hope has wings,
from those who treasure benign roles,
and sweet things
Blue mood
cures one extols
wooed
Depression I can sense,
from those who treasure benign roles,
wooed
fragile
two did not last
but hold a same shared past
quite mind heavy and heart messy
frazzled
empty
uses one plate
washed with one dirty glass
after meals where nothing is passed
erased
scrambled
all is quiet
holds conversations with
self as spoken aloud each day
scopeless
depressed
just one decides
what to keep or closet
with recalls viewed raw or perfect
darksome
listless
one lone pillow
for sleep and times to weep
when reaching out to find no one
lonely
Black snow.
An empty moon.
A lifeless vessel trapped.
A cold heart held by red tendrils.
It burns.
Master, you look dreadful.
Giving cold shoulders, second nature.
Posture slacking, worn clothes.
Bloodshot eyes fade into the background.
A change in gravity, pulling with all its might.
No more tears left to leave stains.
An avalanche interrupting my tranquility.
An unoriginal copy, just a mannequin.
Heavens, master.
You’re not singing.
Amidst the icy fortress of solitude,
snow and ice reign down.
As the ice pierces its way through the armor,
madness sinks farther into this bruised ribcage.
The sheer cold slowly seeps into the skin.
As it transforms this vessel into a cold heart,
frostbite traps these emotions in time.
Not fear nor sadness, just lifeless and numb.
A lack of peace, a restless mind.
We can remain as we are,
forever and ever.
In the deep, where ancient spirits sleep,
A silent world, a kingdom ravaged, a wasteland.
Whispers cease, a mile wide ocean of darkness.
A black canvas, where lost souls slumber.
No thoughts nor voice, only shadow remains.
No sun to guide, no light that burns the sky,
A forgotten past lies quietly beneath kingdom’s edge.
Eternal rest within the black flames,
In unity, the void sets spirits free.
No fear nor pain, only mercy and acceptance.
A gentle pull, a comforting embrace,
Resting my heart, in its rightful dark place.
Paralysis keeps those from going astray.
Resting for so long, yet all the energy is drained.
Not being able to live, not being able to die.
The eyes feel heavy,
They want to be closed off from the world.
Unable to feel anything, your privilege is suffering.
Confined to this exotic behavior.
Daylight and night, both are incomplete.
Yet, one cannot exist without the other.
Promises promises,
how lonely, how frightening.
What good is a world that goes on forever?
I confess myself, confused.
Was it convenient to take the double edge sword?
Or perhaps, it’s salvation you seek.
Why now? One by one, two by two.
They come in pairs, and leave you in pieces.
The silver lining of the crimson scythe.
Scars fade, wounds heal, and the pain?
Mastering my depression a thousand times in a thousand lifetimes.
Now, I must do it once again.
Calming water, standing your ground.
The life of a raging fire, the blissful breeze of air.
Ready or not, the clock starts ticking.
You’re running out of time.
We, are running out of time.
I am, am I…Alive?
Sometimes I feel none love me for my soul.
Everyone only loves me based on each role.
For a long time I am only but an empty shell.
I only play pretend that I am here and well.
Every time I was close to finally leaving,
My soul is brought back like lightning.
But I feel so hollow, with little to no reason
To hold on to as I go through every season.
Sometimes I feel if I do go, it won't matter.
They would only care if I were to splatter.
I am only so ordinary, no destiny awaits me.
For years I only want my soul to be set free.
Every time I nearly left this diseased body,
There was a fleeting peace, no more misery.
I fight my demon of depression every day,
But someday, it may finally have its way.
A tender ache
hermits my soul—
so far from what I thought
the world would be
when I was
a wide-eyed girl of three.
Now, forty-four,
reality seeps in.
The dream I conjured
was far kinder
than the life
I’m now gowned in.
My body—
a sponge of pain—
soaked in old trauma,
dripping regret,
sinking in secret.
Sit beside me
and tell me it’s true—
that dreams born
will still unfold,
that love is real,
that kindness lingers.
So tell me—
somewhere beneath the grip,
does a softer haven hold?
Does the child I once was
still have a place
to rest her head—
to lay down all she’s carried,
and be held
by the world
in its cradled hands?