History . . .

I'm new to the whole blogging thing and mostly this is about letting out so many of the issues I have related to my brain. It may take me a while to work up to all that so I thought I'd start by throwing out some of my old poetry and stuff. I'm not saying it's any good . . . in fact it's probably not. I wrote this stuff for a poetry class I took once. Eventually, I'll post some of the papers I wrote while working on my psychology degree. If you don't like the page, don't visit it. If you've got something negative to say, well, fuck off. I've got enough issues and I don't need your crap. I'm not here to get myself noticed or published or anything else. If you have a problem with the language I use, again, fuck off. I'm not here to protect your sensibilities. This is not about you. I don't need or want criticism - constructive or otherwise.  I simply need to be able to let this stuff out and stuff I wrote a long time ago is a vehicle for that. Also, it's crap my family's already seen and until I can figure out how to block my family from seeing my blog, I can't exactly let everything out, now can I? Not that I don't love them, but I'd prefer this remains an anonymous, and therefore, safe place. Whatever. Here it is:

Depression

It’s the little voice inside my head that whispers no one cares

It’s the thing that sends my meanest thoughts into the air

It’s what makes me think my friends are not what they appear

It’s not your fault. They’re all to blame it whispers in my ear

If he did this or she did that you could be happy then it claims.

Because of them you can’t be glad and isn’t that an awful shame?

They like it when you hurt, it says, they want you to be blue.

Tell them that you hate them and you’re ready to be through.

Just pack your bags and walk away before they ask for more.

All you do is not enough. What are you waiting for?

It’s a great black pit inside my soul that puts me on the ledge.

The thing that keeps me so obsessed with the razor’s edge.

It’s the voice that says don’t bother getting out of bed.

It picks and drags and pulls and digs the truth out of my head.

Then twists it up and makes it lies and pours it right back in.

Don’t you think if love were real it would be free from sin?

You can’t trust him, you never could, you know that he is false.

He’ll lie to you and cheat on you the writing’s on the wall.

You can’t believe a single word that comes out of his mouth.

I’m sure if you look hard enough you’ll find a cause to doubt.

He doesn’t love you, never has, he’s only here for sex.

How could anyone that good care for such a wreck?

You are nothing without me, I’m your excuse to fail.

It’s your choice to get up or lay around and wail.

It makes me feel like I don’t try my hardest in some way.

Just to get up out of bed and make it through the day.

It is wrong, I know it is, I know that they’re all lies

And if I had the energy I’d cut it down to size.