Untitled

by

Katherine Tildes

And so I dig a hole
so deep that I cannot see the light
A hole where I can hide
from the light
from the day
from the facts I cannot deal with
Because it causes too much pain
to open up
to let someone in again
It will end up the same,
someone will get hurt
someone will be to blame.
It’s always the same bullshit
over and over again.
It’s always me at fault
and it always will be,
that’s the way it goes.
So I tell them to save themselves,
to back away,
to steer clear of the flames.
And I push everyone else away
simply because I can.

One Day

Sitting in my blackened room
with my blackened mood
and my blackened heart
Listening to Linkin Park
and reading Prozac Nation
Identifying with some of the things
Ellie has to say.
Depression is evil,
It’s cancerous;
it started out a tiny seed
and slowly grew
feeding of my angst,
my hate,
my fears and dreams.
Now it’s full-grown and catching
up with me.
And I can’t help but stand aside,
the convoluted emotions sweeping me off my feet.

I’m finding it harder and harder to express my
feelings with words
I need a new outlet,
something more vague,
something I don’t feel I have to share.
I can’t write music
because I cant finish any lyrics.
I can’t paint or draw,
it all looks like shit.
Considering my guitar is at home
and I can’t really play anyway
there isn’t a point to trying that again.
I guess I’ll just have to wait for the
Inspiration to come to me.

This poem seems to be two
but its actually two halves
tied together by varied pain.
Sort of like me,
the way I am,
tied together by various strings,
the seams stretching and straining
until one day I am two people.

Untitled

You don’t see what I see,
the ugliness inside,
the pain and hurt
I inflict.
You don’t bear witness
to any of the despair
in there,
it all hides,
burrowing further,
deeper down.

This depression is useless,
its tentacles tugging and
pulling upon me,
but never bringing me
far enough down.
I can never actually kill myself,
end it all;
I have too much to live for.
There is too much
I’ve promised to do,
too many words said,
promises made to
those left behind.

I long to feel real pains,
to have the real pressure
of ache upon my body.
I take drugs to dampen it all,
and I cut thin lines
into my wrist,
hoping to accomplish true pain.
And though I hurt and loathe,
I cannot bear to destroy it all,
to just let it die away.
Instead I suffice it with little things.
harsh words,
hatred and angsty pain.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Oh to be out in the country
by: Francis Duggan
from: Wonthaggi, Victoria, Australia

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