Cellofortist

I'm proud to be an outcast But I'm proud to lead the fight For though the dark is rising We will always see the light. I'm proud to lose my body But I'm proud to lift my eyes For though the pain is sharper We will always break the ties. I'm proud to sweat and suffer But I'm proud to stand up tall For though the others stumble We will always break their fall. I'm proud to watch the moonrise But I'm proud to end the day For though the season's over We will always find a way. ~M

I've heard so many people tell those who suffer depression to just 'cheer up.' I wonder if they can really believe that it's that simple. Depression isn't just sadness. It is emptiness, it is misery. It is pain and nothingness at once. When you are truly depressed you lack the ability or will to cheer yourself up. No one just 'has depression.' You suffer from it. This is depression: You will wake at 5, 6, maybe 7am, feeling as though you had only just fallen asleep. It's likely you did. If you don't have to be somewhere, you could lie in bed for another 3 hours...too tired, too miserable and pathetic to crawl out of you bed. Or maybe you wi

  "Hello?!" ... "Hello?!" ... "Hello..!" ... "Hello..?" ... "Hello..." "Please, please.. If anyone can hear me, Please.. please, Throw me a life-line because I am lost in this sea of lies.. I'm surrounded by waves of names, lunging, screeching at me, Washing over, Soaking me.. Drowning me in it's words, sinking me to the bottom.. I can't see, There's  a mist, fog, drizzle, ..storm of comments, Raining down on me Though I try to hide my tears through the pain.. I can't breathe, For the lies are choking me. Please, please.. I need a life-line to carry on. I need a life-line to get me out of this raging storm o

I hate the words I rehearse. I hate the flow of the ink. The art formed is insincere. Every trickle of tears, Every curvature of a smile. Expatriated by rancour. I sit exposed under the sun, I sit alone and defenceless. Endless rusted condition. Here on this land etched a symbol, Here on this land my hated canvas. I dismiss detestation. I break my fingers again, I break my mind. Trying to be whole. I hate the words I rehearse. I hate the flow of the ink. What I have become repulses me.