depression – A Poet's Pen

Left Behind

Depression: an absence of hope, filled with apathy, sitting in an empty house devoid of any colors

or windows

or doors.

Sometimes I can hear a low rumbling drone, like a constant flow moving away from me,

but I can’t place it.

I can’t decipher or understand what this sound is, or where it is going,

but I want to go with it.

On the other side of these walls I know there are roads with people and noise.

I know, because I used to be a part of it

When the Sun left my mind at peace–

So tell me…

When was I left behind in an empty, noiseless city?

Stranger

I hate this present.

I hate how I have failed to show you depth and beauty and strength.

I gave you a torn reality that is fake and empty.

I am sorry.

I wish we could start over and find ourselves again.

Maybe we still can.

Heavy Listening

Words are lost in translation and

my mind is a blur of yes and no and run,

but I wait for someone to step out of this blur

and say something that sounds like a warm greeting–

a hello from quiet mornings and coffee–

but my thoughts are too light for the harsh reality that claims my fate,

and I can’t run away

from a present perfect destruction that waits in the corners of every room–

every hidden space that makes a piece of the puzzle that was never meant to be there.

It was never meant to fit where

I wanted to place it.

I wasn’t meant for building concrete things.

I was meant for discreet passage ways

In tunnels that have no space for answers.

My Campus Letter

A poem I wrote during my Senior year of college.

I am going home.

I am leaving, but I hate saying good-bye.

Good-byes are hard, and they aren’t honest. You can’t look someone in the eye and tell them it’s good that you’re leaving–

So here I am

Standing–

Looking around at empty spaces,

Thinking about the students melting away in plastic chairs,

Waiting for their day to start.

Why am I here?

Give me back my sophomore year–

When my friends sat on the quad and played guitar music,

And started paint wars, flour wars, and water balloon fights.

When my first impression consisted of the random girl sitting in a tree reading

And people called me a hippie, because I ran in my bare feet.

Give me back the late nights at Omlette Spot, and the basic days at Starbucks,

When we used to think the “Why?” questions, and found ourselves in the stars–

When we sat with our legs crossed, shuffling through a deck of cards–

Give me back my friends,

The people I shared my life with,

And the people who loved with their whole selves–

Not just with their words.

Give me back the girl I was sophomore year.

I want to feel light again, like I can fly,

And find off the wall dreams.

Give me back my piece of something…

But I am leaving.

And this short span in my existence is coming to its end–

So the bell rings.

My mind rushes forward as I see students pour out from their classes,

And relief leaves me.

I bow my head, smile at my bare feet, and close my eyes.

I guess this is good-bye.