Depression (Poem)
Updated: Feb 21
(More on depression here)
Many people care,
Only for what gives them,
The sweet, sweet sense of pleasure.
Should they be pissed off,
They'll apathetically try to scar you,
Even if your intentions are pure and good.
Fleets of memories,
fly above my mind.
Fly around, like Saturn's ring,
And in my mind, their depressing content, they sing.
For they seek to be gratified,
-- That is their king.
They dislike,
Anyone who says things
Which they despise to hear.
Their lack of satisfaction,
Serves in their eyes, a justification,
To bring the sensitive mind,
Into the sinking temptation,
Of depression.
They care not for the impact they made,
On the sensitive mind.
The words implicated,
Like bombs from the sky.
Many days are a struggle,
To not shed a tear from the eye.
The more inhuman you are,
The better,
For that means life will go easier,
Both when implicating and being applicated
The more humane, naïve you are,
The more prone you will be,
To the irritating tyrants,
Of unwanted emotions,
Like ghosts haunting you,
For the rest of your life.
(I tried de-sensitizing myself,
All I am left is,
Even if you've wanted to do good,
They care not.
Even if you do it almost entirely as a volunteer,
They care not.
That sector cares only,
To read the words they want to hear,
And should they not receive which they seek,
They'll not hesitate,
To strike fear,
Into your heart,
Of the world at large;
The very world,
You were taught by,
Naïve, biased teachers,
To seek, to desire, to contribute,
To conquer with love, with care.
Sensitivity, for them,
Is a weakness;
A ridicule, a joke.
And as they live their lives happily,
You cannot but try to wrestle against the desire,
For them to choke,
As the retribution,
Of making you suffer,
Just because "it is their right to say whatever they want".
When I volunteered for National Service,
I was hungry once.
Hunger makes me anxious.
Because of that I told my officer that I will not attend,
That individually-irrelevant ceremony.
They called me arrogant and selfish...
Me, a volunteer in the civilian ranks,
Who just wanted to eat,
Or else anxiety might tempt him to scream.
Is it arrogant, to bring something of your own?
Is it arrogant, to not act like I'm a slave to others' satisfaction?
It seems that, whenever I wanted to contribute,
Much of what I got, was but words of hate,
Words of rebuke.
So what if it will deteriorate my mentality,
So what if it will make me dependant on more pills,
For the rest of my life...
All they want,
Is that sweet, sweet taste of
APPROVED CONSUMERISM.
And once they've done, they want it again!
And again! and again!
Because things they dislike,
They dislike with such burning passion,
That makes one wonder,
If they think the world owns to them,
Anything, anything at all?
Unease? Lack of satisfaction, too?
Boy, do I wonder,
Do I look like a s*x worker to you?
Is it my job to be hit for "not delivering the goods"?
Why is pleasure.. such a self-entitled douche?
That sector, when unsatisfied,
Will wish to make you feel so bad about yourself,
That you are tempted to wonder...
.....Are they right?
And, saying NO and NO and NO,
Does not make the question go away,
In the mind of the obsessive, highly-caffeinated,
Unwillingly-emotional writer,
That I am.
If you are sensitive as I am,
(Or less)
Let's share this, to show awareness to the fact,
That sensitivity is one heck of a curse,
Inflicted on one's mind,
..Perhpas for all of eternity.
There is no escape...
..Only in a life of solitude.
