There once was a man with depression,
his sarcasm was a kind of obsession,
When he’s about to choke,
Just told another joke,
What a very nice form of repression.
Command not recognized,
but him, we
should have aborted.
The monster is not inside the closet,
it’s not under the bed,
the monster lives inside of me,
whispering fears into my head.
It makes sure I will understand
the hidden meaning of the word,
so even the kindest niceties,
cut me deeper than a sword.
all sound is filtered, colors cut,
all is rude, sharp and grey.
The beauty in the world is not for me,
I won’t die just slowly wither and decay.
All these fading scars,
each different yet the same memory,
of a void and empty space inside,
that I thought I killed but only maimed.
It healed, it grew, became strong enough,
to start another fight.
If it will win I will die,
murder masked by suicide.
My vocabulary for pain extends only for the outside,
Here I was cut, and here I was bruised,
Here I was hurt badly and stitches were used.
So why I cannot express the pain from within,
No words can be found, where the blackness begins,
It’s there, and it’s pressing right on your chest,
It pushes your tears out and gives you no rest.
It sucks your life out until you wither and die.
But that pain, always there, I cannot describe.