depression poem

I'm (not) okay

What would you do if I told you I wanted to die?

My thoughts have damaged me more than blades ever could.

Fake smile, dried eyes, bloody wrists, isolation.

I lay in bed for hours in the dark at night, thinking about every possible thing I fucked up in my life.

I have no motivation to save myself anymore.

I’m not as strong as everyone thinks I am.

Behind that fake everyday smile, is my hurting heart.
Behind my laugh, I’m falling apart.

Everyone thinks I’m happy.

I wish I was never born.

Where did I go wrong?

I’m sorry I’m so messed up. I don’t know what I want to do and I’m sorry I’m such a fucking failure.

No one will care.
No one will cry.
They’ll stare at my dead, motionless body.
They won’t care…

Nobody wants me.
Nobody likes me.
Nobody needs me.

You said “I Love You”
I said it back too.
The only difference is I didn’t lie to you.

My silence is just another word for my pain.

I’m told to stay strong, but they don’t understand……I’ve already lost….

I’ve slowly been giving up.

I can’t feel anything but sadness.

I’m sorry I was born.

Would you cry If I wasn’t here anymore?

Oh dear Love,
You are one of the most beautiful feelings
You make us discover a side we never knew of
What is this feeling?
This feeling of heat, happiness, and…
It’s Love
But my dear, you may give us happiness
But you also give us agony
You make us suffer
We put so much of our time into our love actions and thoughts
We were not prepared to be struck down
You gave us misery
depression and a dark world
Some make it
Some don’t
Although, Thank you for making us stronger
This is what true Love is.
I guess I always wonder if things would be different if I would have done any little thing differently. If I would have stayed over longer, or called that night or told you I loved you more.
If maybe you wouldn’t have taken me for advantage.
But now I think you are who you are regardless of how I loved you.
—  Still I loved you // Sarah el

I’ve always had that feeling, since I was a child that I would die young.
I’ve never known why, but oh how I wonder.

Would it be a murder or a suicide?

Would it be I naively blundered into something I shouldn’t of?

Would it be a knife, would it be a gun?

I think I’ll die before the age of twenty one.
But, I can never sure, not at least till I’m buried in the dirt.

—  Just A Feeling a poem written by myself, Frankie