Posts Tagged ‘depression’

stand by me


we laughed in the face of danger,
we rioted,
young wild and free.
we lit our cigarettes
in Molotov cocktails,
we drank ’till the night was day,
the day was night,
the in was out
the end was another beginning.

we labeled this
our adventures,
our experiments.
we called it “living
like there was no tomorrow”,
“rebel yell”,
and excused ourselves
“’cause boys will be boys”.

we, middle children
of white, middle-class, bland parents,
wanted to have “our own story”.

we said that we
were just expressing our individuality,
that this was what molded us,
what made us unique.

thus, we romanticized
our suffering,
thought our mental illnesses,
our emotional traumas
were absolutely necessary:

that this would make us,
in the end,
the next Kerouacs, Poes
and Baudelaires.

we were in the tortuous path
of “finding ourselves”.

we entered our adult lives
not with a foot on the world’s door,
but kamikazeing.

addicted to uppers
and downers,
things to make us,
casual alcoholics,
(not to mention chain-smokers,
pill-poppers and broke)

but “having the time of our
amazing, blessed lives”
on social media,
while on slow-drips
of homeopathic detoxing
to bear the sheer pressure
of being
emotionally unbalanced,
dreamless, jobless,

frail as broken kids.

behind a facade
of cool wayfarer ray-bans,
we were cold-turkeying children,
ego-tripping and jet-setting
to fill bottomless holes
of pure insanity.

’till the first one of us
the one that least deserved,
the one that never asked for it,
the one that picked up our pieces
cleaned puddles of vomit,
took us home, bathed us:

among us,
the one true angel.

thus, we rebuilt.
among the ashes and the stones,
we gathered what we could
from the fire,
and we redid it.


(now is time to be strong
for the harsh times
that are coming.

it is time for me to be your rock
as you were mine)


standing in the way of control


on a rare, dark moon,
you feel cold shoulders everywhere,
and shiver, scared, cornered,
like you were kicked in the teeth.

it’s like a world, too busy
staring at its own belly button,
ran over you.

used and discarded,
you – always so loyal,
a righteous knight, the protector –
feel like, in the exodus, were left behind.

you tether dangerously
on the edge of despair.
you think
you ought to give up,
before its too late,
you must run and hide.

but its a conundrum, really:
how will you fix your loneliness,
your crave for attention,
by isolating yourself even more?

so you stand frozen on the spot,
spiraling out of control,
socially anxious,

a mess inside your head!
you can only conclude:
loneliness is a lot worse
for those who always always smile.

below the mouth


harsh, like being run over by a train, is the realization that i haven’t felt good in a while. that none of us have. that the world is hard, that society is mean, and that we are crumbling under the pressure of what others want and expect from us, in places and stances that are both amazing and miserable.

it’s hard to acknowledge that we are the adults we dreaded becoming, our parents, our authority figures: empty, cold and emotionally exhausted from running drastic scenarios over and over in our heads, for eating and drinking paranoia, fears and anguish, due bills and other responsibilities that stop us from sleeping. but, either way, we don’t mind insomnia, for sleeping is the cousin of death and i am not ready to die.

i am not. i cannot. i should not. or should i? maybe there is no point in existing, one may conclude – and, just as easily discard, because one must live, for one has hopes and dreams. one has roles to play, no time to rest. i should spark, i should be rich. i just cannot be. i must excel, and achieve. or so i was told by my mother, father, my church and my state. and by my self, really, in a stern convincing voice in front of the office mirror while i have cold sweats in the middle of the day.

maybe i am not mediocre, just stupid. maybe it is the lack of sleep, it probably is. maybe it’s the drugs, i should do a cleanse. maybe it is normal and i am just tired of having no clarity, or no answers. maybe i am thinking too much and can’t rest this thick muscle inside my head, can’t shut up the tiny voice that just tells me “there is no escape, this is it”. maybe i am doomed to be weak and never have the strength to get better.

i don’t know. how one can know? who has these answers? what is the path?

mine is apparently down, for my steps are tumbling down a slope. me, that was forever strong, a staple of sanity and solidity for others – i am going down with the whole bunch of my generation, and i don’t even know if i should fight this or just be glad. if i should prepare to vanish, to be gone, forgotten… just accept the fall and, as i go, say all the things that i have always wanted to say but never did. (never had the guts, never had the need).

maybe i won’t fall, but have to try something else. 180º turn, mix and mismatch. deny destiny, never drink the fate. maybe i should fight this all with my bravest arm, for i never waited for things to fall from the sky. “it is not who you are” i can hear them saying. at the moment, i think i can’t, but maybe i do. maybe i should rely on others, i don’t know. would you be willing to listen? to talk to me? i feel that you won’t, and that i will feel bad in your presence. i feel bad in other people’s presence: i don’t know if i should offer sorries, or if i should pretend i am well.

the question is: why is no one asking, really, if i am ok? I’ve given plenty clues that we are not ok. i get angry because of that. i feel like no one ever wants to talk about those things, no one wants to dry their tears. i feel like we aren’t allowed to cry, that it’d be shameful. is it? i have no etiquette.

truth is i don’t know if i want to speak the words either, to open up. if i have the will in me. i paradoxically want both the silence and the chaos, to be alone deep down a dark whole and a party and to be surrounded, be enlightened. i want it all and i want nothing, that’s it. maybe i just want a hug that i don’t know how to ask for. will you hug me if i ever stand up to the way to your arms?

all i know is that i don’t want to die alone. i am an ok person, i don’t deserve this. aren’t i? adulting is hard. self-esteem is hard. being abandoned is hard, and leads to more abandoning. things are turbid, the future is blemished, murky: i can’t see a single feet in front of me, so maybe i should stay put. or maybe i should walk until i find someone.

so what can i do?

for now, sit down and cry.

drifting off


it’s dangerous to think,
to realize
that few are the things that tether us
to this world:

a few personal connections,
some small thoughts
and a little gravity.

how easy would it be
to just float away?

solemn capricorn moon


i have been disconnected from my writing,
disconnected from my beauties-
from my own
earthly body as well.

but not as in a transcending,
celestial way
just… dissociating.

i haven’t been speaking
my tongue,
the secret language of my heart,
of the world of my mind,
that is reserved for what I rather show
others than tell.

i have been
avoiding my art,
and speaking my pieces,
fearing something
that i have yet to discover what it is.

i have been angry, that’s true.
i have been
devoted to a discontent
that seems to fuel me,
but also consume
all my energy.

i haven’t been able to understand
the world
and sincerely haven’t been interested in doing
so, or so
it seems.

i have, unbeknownst to me,
been stunned by clear glass windows,
made for show
(never feel)
and the shiny, rapid things
that are dangled in front of me.

i have been a fool.

i have been donating
my time and attention
to things that don’t belong to me,
that don’t fit me,
i have been lost, wasting time
chasing ethers that are not to be mine;

during this process
of descending into objects
instead of feelings
(or empathy really
or people),
I have been going further
and further down
a loathing pit
encased in flaring mirrors:

so far away
i have been
from my stars.



slowly, let that loneliness engulf

let it eat you up.

everything’s shit


believe me when I say
I do try my best
(even if my best isn’t much,
if, many times, it isn’t palpable,
or warm-
if it’s hard
and abrasive
like a tumble
down a slope of hot asphalt)

I am sorry that
I can’t give you this
(because, I, myself, don’t have any relief),
and I am sorry
if I am angry most of the time
and can’t stick around much for the good parts,
for the joy
that you need
(because I am consumed
by my own fears and goodbyes,
drowning in my anxiety
and a low-burning hatred for myself
and others that never seems to dull or fade.)

I am imperfect
but I have good intentions
and sometimes cold,
[many] good intentions.



my bones are all aching,
a few of my ribs, broken;
the skin is cut to shreds, scratched,
blotched in bruises of all colors:
yellow, black and blue.

however, you should see
my pride.
the punching bag
of my existence.

(there is no salve for it)



“now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds”

this is her tale of sorrow and disappointment.
this is her story, about how she became what, today, she is. and what she wishes she could present herself to be, but cannot be.
a repeating cautionary tale of how to always be alone, to be repeated in echoes throughout infinity.

it’s short and it’s raw, but she is a five feet five short pack of raw words, resentment and chafed knuckles.

she is what she has to be. not moody, and neither ruthless. just a being.

no songs really appeal to her. apathy has become her as she has become apathy, ruler of gray thoughts, of bland & blank faces and of heads as cloudy as the dark skies above the skyscrapers. misty are the clouds that roam her spirit and something she is: not really sad, indeed, but just chronically hurt.

she is what she was taught to be. a wolf that had to become in order to survive. she is a ghost among the clear lakes and green pines, she roams and roams purposeless as she cannot seem to be able to shake off, to hide the melancholy that is rooted in her very being, threaded through the fabric of the alveoli in her drowned lungs.

she has all these feelings that have made her body their home, even though her own mind is homeless… and lately, it is worse. she seems devoid of light and life in her eyes. she has been haunted by the despair that has populated her mind ever since she had to watch him leave the room,

(watched, like a movie, as he put on his boots slowly, sat by the end of bed, passed his ragged shirt over his head, ran his fingers through the greasy messy bed-hair, pocketed his pack of cigarettes and the motel matches, tossed in slow-motion his jacket over his shoulders
[he forgot his socks by the dresser]
and left, a careless shrug and the distant sound of the car’s engine going further away, in the background, only the cloud of sand rising, rustling in the pavement… really, the soundtrack of her life)

as she pretended to sleep through half-hooded, watery eyes.

316th day of misery


I just crave a human touch