Depression

One. 

Then half. 

Broken. 

Cut. 

Just obey the pills prescribed;

They numb your pain, they set things right

in a malevolent fashion, 

a sprightly obsession, 

just let your fingers reach 

for life. 

Or is it. 

None, I would have none of this;

What have I succumbed to, what can't I resist?

Chopped up pieces, 

and dust settles 

in the pill cutter.

Yet nothing ceases;

not these lurid images, 

nor the tenuous arguments 

where myself and I banter.

Where, do I exist?

The doses are in half,

white pretty mashable pills. 

A widened gulf

where weakness unveils; 

broken in mockingly like these pills,

or those tattered sails

(look over there) 

faltering amidst 

the wind drafts.

I was exhausted; I needed escape.

Blurring spots of exhaust 

and lights. The vision contorts

into a sudden urge,

a suicidal burst, 

but no steering wheels. I stood withdrawn

from the pavement and report

myself safe from myself-- 

insanity well-repelled.

I was frightened; I wanted change.

If wiping streaks of red 

and tears off the already-sodden floor

were my only way to integrate 

back into this endless debate.

Staring, blaming, screeching, plotting,

why was life continuously tensed?

Selfish, boorish, scheming, deceiving--

Words thrown so lightly they've lost their meaning.

These loaded guns we find

yet fire not, 

the load off our minds.

What events and what redress?

Pride consumes pride

as we each belittle ourselves 

in an ever-nauseous ride. 

And I despise that in me dwells

a forgotten child. One who

cries herself to sleep dreaming 

dreams meant for the night. Cuddling 

close to the ceramic cold floor rueful

and silent, as the conflicts do

not dismiss themselves. Doubtful

of all 

and none, 

and (indeed) more of herself,

with the hard floor her only concrete

support, she lies 

in the wake of dreams and peace,

but will not mourn

till she safely falls to sleep. 

Why digress?

No, there wasn't darkness 

In those days as you'd think. 

It was an irksome light of fantasy,

a hope you wouldn't want to glimpse.

I'd ventured far in caverns 

of words. Or lies. Or truths

bewitched into a senseless sorcery 

of denial and disease.

Perhaps there was a slight claustrophobia;

never breaking out of their antics.

Trembling and reaching 

for white-blue Anarex tablets

while palpitations seize 

every nerve of your being. 

Imagine. You flinch, then throw up

the nonsense you inherit. 

Slowly but surely you'd start to believe

that in time truth would be extinct.

But I wouldn't let things be,

the world was not cursed yet it seemed;

but the more I aimed to persist, 

the greater I had to submit.

If this way madness lies, 

Meant that I'd take your word for truth; 

and bow to your censure, 

your subterfuge and enslaving;

then I say to myself 

I have failed. 

If for you I could not offer help, 

the least I could do was save myself.

The first is repression,

The second denial.

Pseudo-strength, a soft-shelled turtle,

Raised fists to deal aggression.

The third you sink

In a quicksand make-shift

pit, receding into fears 

grown mouldy from darkened tears.

If for you I could not protect, 

then allow my retreat, of which I lament.

To ask who am I, what am I, why am I; 

the context cannot be limited 

to the cold walls I reside in. 

It gives insight,

and beseeches a spirited

awakening, galvanised into acting 

out one's days not in retrospect.

And if you ask

for what future I would embrace, 

I'd not waste this revival; 

my saving grace.