(I know it's not strictly a poem, but I didn't see a better place for it. @Jacque - if this would be better elsewhere, move it where you think best. - Hammer)
I know a someone who is depressed. Very depressed. In his moments of deepest depression, he sits in the dark and writes about what he's thinking at that very moment, when he gets bored with what he's writing, or if his thoughts change mid-sentence, he rolls with it. I like what he writes. It's real. Fiction, no matter how well-written, will never measure up to writings that come from real people saying real things.
This is what they say:
The images whch fladh before my eyes are not real.. How could they be? These fleeting bursts of informatio and sensation are nothing but udicrous mockeries of reality. How can I be so sure what I see is reality at all? Why should I believe the thoughts which grace me with but a few short moment before sisappointingly flying into the ther from which they originally came. I hate this world into which i have been delivered. what is the meaning of it? who controls this? God? Don’t make me lugh. God is a crutch, the last foolish crutch of a losting race. Humanity no longers longs to be a part of one another, we want nothing but division. THe us and the them consume our good intentions until nothing remains of us but greed and osolationism. Do i feel the same. i don’t know anything about myself anymore. why the fuck am i here? what purpose do i serve but to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide. its a travesty that su h a body and suh a mind should be wated on one such as me. my place in the wrld is so trivial it borders on hilarity. what ipact do i have? they say they care about me, or they would. and they show it to me through ther actions and jokes, but i fail to feel it. i fail to feel anything at ll nymore. my emotions are dulled to the poit of none-existance. if ever there were a more pathetic wretch than myself, than i pity him. i do not actually pity him, but i would use such a word as that in my writings and in my speech i would use such an emotional word as that to lie about what actually resides wihtin my worthless exterior: nothing. What am I but a joke in the eyes of creation? i laugh at what i say, but not because it is funny, i do not know what that means any more than i know the distance between the earth and the moon. will they seek me out? i hope so, but at the same time i hope they spend the rest of heir evenings without a thought in thei mind even remotely related to me. i hope they come to relize the pointlessness of my existence in the same perameters as i hav e. i write like this becaue i think that i am prilliant, that writing continuously and ignoring the spelling and grammar mistakes will cause my work to rise above the others, to make me distinct in a way that nothing else ever has. i fear that this is not anew gimiick, that others such as myself have come up with it. my problems are not unique. i am simply depressed, just like the X% of other teens out in the world that the television commercials like to taut around, hoping against hope that theses message will inspire fear in us, enough fearm in fact, that we stop what we do in order to buy what they seell. i am not unique, i have others out there with the same provlems and issues i have. they are waiting to group with the rest of us so that we may move towards recovery together and reach perfection as one peiple. and this is exactly the reason why i hate them. i see myself as being the best. my mistakes ar e simply days off, days not on the ball. i am the piece of shit that the world revolves around. i take the worst aspecs of self-centered douchebaggery and self-esteemless depression and i mix them into a concoction of my own creation, leading to where and what i am now. a man writing to himself in the dark of the top foor of the library. i hink that i love her, if i knew what that meant. when i am around her i feel a cnnection stronger than with any other. my need to stay near is insatiable, even as i feel her slip away from me, perhaps she is indifferent about me, but i don’t think it seems like that. whn in groups she is distant, and when alone, she talks of others, even whil i lie there and look at her, and she looks back. wht does she want feom me? it is a fmily problem, this paranoia, from my father’s side f the family it is. my aunt is a schizophrenic whom i have never met, and my dad takes his monopoly money with him to the bathroom to aoid our thievery. i am a depressed, self-centered, paranoid, acne-riddled, worthless lump of a failue of a college student. what am i doing here. nathan chastizes me for not being complete enough in my essay. i respect him. i love him. am i gy? am i ready to admit that? i watch porn and all i see is the penis. it is what i watch it for. that is a lie, i watch lesbian porn also, and imagine myself as a woman among them. a gender identity crisis. i hat ebign tall. i hate being shorter than others. i hate being a singer. i hate nathaniel for tewlling me and others how to sing better. no genereal tips mind you, only a thurough rebuking when singing an interval wrong. fuck him and his tiny little eyes and his narrow little face. i hat them all. no i don;’t i love them, if i knew what that meant. what is love? i must learn what it means, and what it feels like. how could anyone be sure of nything until after it happens? hindsight is 20/20 aftr all. how long have i sat here writing this drivvle? who would care about this mess? would she? I doubt it. she may find it worrying, she is so distant, i hate her too, her forces cheeriness at the mere idea of anything to do with anything. what is her motivation? WHAT IS HER MOTIVATION? she intices me but i hate her. why do i kiss her? because she kisses me back, she grind her almost naked body against mine as i awkwardly try to get her t go further. why wouldn’t she touch my penis? is she afraid? only 6 weeks have elapsed since we started “going out” with each other. this isn’t helping. this wiritng. it doesn’t hepl me at all. it started with a lie, a lie to myself. i lied to myself and told me it was a social experiemtn, and so it started. i got a salad because it meant i didn’t havw to talk to the cafeteria workers. i sat quietly and looked down at my food while they all sat around me and enjoyed themselves. casey was worried. i lovwe him, if i knew what that meant. she was unconcerned, she had seen me do t before. she was a little concerned, maybe very concerned because she cares about me. but she didn’t show it to the others because it would embaress her. i hate her for that. i pushed her hand away when she tried to ask me if i was sad, she tried to remove my music to ask me so that i would hear her, and i pushed her hand away. i hurt her in that instant, perhaps permanently. i don’t think i did. she is strong, stronger than i am. i love her, if i knew what that meant. when we are with others i think “what am i doing with her? look how she lies away from me, sits away from me, reads her books by the light of a different lamp, of a different idea of what a relationship is. i hate her in those moments, i want us to be a crazy couple, where we immerse ourselves in each other ntil nothing of an individual remains. i want her to understand how much she means to me. how much i value her every glance in my direction. it makes me feel like i’m worht something. like i matter to another human being beyond just a bag of meat that spews jokes and funny like quips and voices. fuck them all, they want things from me, but i have nothing to give. no talents to develop. i wish she knew how much i loved her. i know what it means.
Don't comment if you don't have to. No snide remarks. I just love the poetry of the mind. The act of writing precisely what is one your mind is very soothing to me, and I have started doing it everywhere, Facebook, whatever. It's sometimes a little arduous to read through, but I feel like it gives a much better picture of who you are as opposed to thinking of yourself as a collect of "likes" or pictures of your jumping while smiling. Try it the next time you're talking about something serious on Facebook, let your mind flow onto the keys as opposed to your agendas. Nothing too Freudian though, I don't think the world is quite ready to experience what REALLY goes on in our minds.