Depression would be so simple
If it were just an intense sadness,
Instead it feels like my heart
Is the abandoned house of
Somebody who’s recently died,
Like emotions come knocking
But there’s no one there to answer,
Like only the memory of what once was
Lingers in the weak beating organ,
But still they knock, knock, knock,
Against my chest, against my brain,
In my fucked up digestive system,
And I want to hang a sign on the door,
We’re closed, come back soon.
(Come back never)
And in the lowest of the lows,
It feels like a house that’s been
So long abandoned that even
The memory of feelings are just wisps
Spilling through my fingers like sand,
Like moss is growing on the walls
And the roof is collapsing in on itself
As I try to wave around hammers
And throw nails at it in desperation,
Because what the actual fuck
Is WRONG with me?
And I tell myself it’s only temporary,
That I’m nearly twenty-eight,
And that’s too late to die as a tortured artist,
But what the fuck makes me think
That I’m even comparable to them?
That I’m any sort of artist to being with?
And that even if I were what’s the actual
Benefit of living past twenty eight?
Because maybe nothing exists in death,
And that would mean the end of depression.