Everyday I ask myself,
“What am I doing with my life?”
And sometimes… I feel fear when the words escape my mouth–
Like they are running into the unknown,
Quickly being ripped away from me
Without giving an answer to the emptiness I am left with.
I meet a crisis everyday.
I ask myself when this anxious feeling will end
So I can begin again,
But I haven’t found the solace yet.
I haven’t discovered relief from the questions.
Today I ask myself,
“Am I a part of the living, or am I closer to death?”
Talking sounds more like listening
To bursts of thunder crackling in the distance
Filling the room with static
Until the build up in our space becomes charged with rage–
Until everything has changed–
Until our bodies become nothing but pieces of wreckage:
A chaotic explosion for the barren wasteland
Where our minds are left behind to deal with the aftermath
made by our hands.
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?
A Poet's Pen 