Poetry Journal [1]

A Simplistic Poem About Depression
Meah Enya Brooks

The bully and victim are one in the same –
They share the same face and they share the same name.
And sometimes they bicker and sometimes they brawl,
And sometimes they simply do not speak at all.

When one blames the other, the blame is thrown back.
They plot their revenge and they plan their attack.
It’s kind of like tennis, but not at all fun.
And nobody wins, and the game’s never done.

I find that it’s hard to describe or define.
‘Extreme melancholy’ sounds sort of benign.
It’s not a black dog or a permanent cloud.
It’s not something dormant or cosy or proud.

It’s feeling unworthy of love and success,
Enjoying the things you once loved less and less,
And harbouring guilt and frustration and stress,
Then summing it up with, ‘My life is a mess.’

And now you’re not sleeping,
And now you’re not listening,
You’re wearing the same outfits thrice in a row.

Now you feel anxious,
Now you’re self-conscious,
With no friends to talk to and nowhere to go.

And everything active is passive and idle,
And everything abstract is strong and intense,
And nothing is worth the exertion or focus,
And nothing is certain, and nothing makes sense.

Your mind is a faucet; it’s pouring out dreams
And creations and ideas which all go to waste.
Yet, hours are monotonous, pallid and pointless,
And days are a matter of ‘copy and paste’.

And life is a series of self-sabotages
Towing through time on emotional barges.
You wish they’d capsize but they keep you afloat –
You’re sailing along on the very same boat,

Exhausting your metaphors, gazing ahead,
Aware that the future propounds you with dread,
Aware that the past is a fact you can’t change
But nonetheless musing, indulging the range

Of better alternatives you could have been
If you’d have done this, or not this, and not seen
What you’d seen, or said this, or made this wrong decision.
But, ultimately, it’s an act of derision

As here’s where you are and here’s where you’ll stay.
Here’s where your chain of events has constrained you.
“Self-pity is petty and tempting,” you’ll say,
And then, “Get a grip,” after sorrow has drained you.

And there is a whole other separate dimension
Between what you want and you feel you can do.
You doubt every talent until it’s a weakness;
Repeat blatant fables until they come true.

The bully’s a victim; the victim’s a bully.
They’re technically right; that it’s ‘all in my head’.
But those who say that cannot understand fully.
I guess I should just get a nosebleed instead.