half-formed poems
catastrophizing stuck in my head
until i think i’ll burst if i don’t
say
something
and then it’s there stuck in my throat
when i remember
actual
catastrophes
all while i’m too tired to sleep
and too sad to cry
and everything feels like a clock ticking down
down
down
but to what
inevitable
terror?
[or is this simply life in late-stage capitalism/climate crisis disaster?]
i keep having
a day or two
of respite
from my utter desolate sadness
that makes me think that
maybe
maybe
maybe
it’s over
maybe
maybe
maybe
i got through it
maybe
maybe
maybe
i can actually
do this thing called
life
but then it comes back
and
i’m so damn sad
the panic had receded
slightly
right around the trip
[maybe it’s because
i was travel-stressed
so i had no room in me
for any other stressors]
[maybe it was just the magic
of a trip
of a visit
to people i love]
whatever it was, i even felt less
the stress
of coming back here — opportunities seemed
gettable
achievable
doable
and i felt like i could march right in
to anywhere
and at least ask for what i want with my life
but now that i’m back
the existential dread has set right back in —
i barely had a day and a half
before i was sad
and panic-ridden
and overwhelmed
and lonely
in this city of millions and millions and millions
and yet i love it here
and it is definitely home
and i ache for it when i leave
how do you do this, nyc?
maybe
i’m just at the end of my
pretending rope/
my imaginary me that makes
me
happy-go-lucky
bubbly and rainbow-y
and i’m starting to see through to my
utter core of goth/emo/darkness —
maybe this pretend me was me
for a time
and maybe this lower me is only a phase
or maybe this is my cycle,
this is my burden to bare
or carry
or lift up into the air
because cycles are natural
time is cyclical
and people live and die and live again in our heads
and everything circles back to the beginning
again
where did these sads come from?
why do they appear
in the midst of what should be
a happy time?
how are they somehow
related
to that happy time?
like i can’t let myself
get swept up in the moment —
i need to remind myself
in every moment
of joy
that despair
and tragedy
exists.
like if i let go
of the depression
that runs everything,
the glue that holds my whole being
together
will loosen
and split
and i’ll fall
apart;
and i just want
to be
myself
[someday]
[someday]
a big sad
an overwhelming wave
of the depression i know best—-
we should be friends by now;
i see them nearly every day,
but their company is always unwelcome
and puts a stop to any idea i had for my day
the worst part
of my particular depression/sadness/melancholia
is that it makes me feel
like all this writing
(which really does make me feel a little bit better)
isn’t
actually
worth
any
effort
at
all
chugging along
the energy it takes
to simply press a key
with a fingertip
expands
exponentially
and i start feeling
exhausted
the fits and starts and stops and hiccups
the pulsating of a pulse part of me wishes didn’t exist
the tears coming to eyes that somehow still can’t cry
the thousand-yard stare into the nothingness of existence
the loneliness felt even when i know so many feel this
and my best friend is sitting mere feet away from me
the vignette of darkness shading the corners of my vision
of my image for my life now
and this poem is taking too long
and has too many words saying nothing at all
all i want to write
is
depression is hard.
the mood settles
down
down
down
deep into the depths of the frown
my marrow molds me
not the opposite
and i need me to be
a little more flexible
a little more malleable
a little less conditioned to find any stress/any sadness
so permanent
that i find myself affixed to my future of
‘i’ve got the morbs
forever more.’
but can i/will i/could i?
[should i?]
the panic in my body
gives way too easily
for how harsh it first appears
i don’t know if the approach is a remnant of
pre-hormone-stabilizing
or childhood trauma
or what
/
i don’t know if the swiftness with which
it all leaves
is some kind of trick my mind has decided to play
but whatever the cause
and for whatever reason
i suppose i’ll take it today
have you ever just
sat down and felt
the overwhelming urge to weep?
yeah, me neither…
[im]perfection
plagues my mind
i strive for it
though i know it’s
unattainable
i try to rewire
rewrite
the narrative
the choice
to choose imperfection
but the core of me whispers
‘what if you’re just not trying hard enough
and you
and only you
are the one person who could do it
perfectly
and you’re just proving how much of a failure you are
by choosing
not to
try’
and i am stuck
in this cycle
never-ending
that only ends in
failure
failure
failure
a failing
of
me
kipventures 