I found this poem I wrote some unknown time ago. I was considering publishing it, but I wouldn't know where, and it's so much work for so long to do that, I just don't want to go to that much trouble when I could just hit "post entry." And it's such an amazing poem! Told from the perpective of... well, you'll see.
“The Brown, The Green, and The Black”
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts
The white man took the world, spreading out among its lands by sea,
Exploiting all they touched, stealing the land from the people already there.
They stole the New World from the natives, killing the Red Man,
Bringing the Black Man from Africa as slaves to work for them.
They went to China, spread drug addiction and misery, for their profit,
And India for spices they never use, spreading misery to the cradle of writing.
Every bit of land they could find they took for theirs,
Exploiting its people even into the 21st century.
The white man went into space, and found no resources, no people to exploit,
So they grew bored with it, for the most part.
Sure, they sent their robots out to fly by far-off worlds,
Touched the moon a few times with their men, but then stopped.
“There's nothing in space but black,” they said,
Upset they'd made no green.
When the people of India and China started going up there, they scoffed.
“We wasted all that money going up there; they're not learning from our mistakes!”
They told us all there was in space was rocks and more rocks,
Forgetting there was a time when all we had were rocks;
All they let us have as they raped our lands were stones.
Like weeds growing in the sidewalk, they tried to kill us off,
So they could keep our lands for themselves.
But like weeds growing in the sidewalk, we persisted.
For life would always find a way, and we still lived.
We found the barren rocks they'd abandoned,
And grew like weeds among them.
In the black, we – the brown – made green.
The green of growth, as we built giant rotating farms in the sky.
From India and China, from Japan, from Africa,
From the Middle East, from the New World,
All the brown and red and yellow, every color but white,
Worldwide, we came together and spread through the black,
Making stone soup, growing life among the stars.
The white man still owns the earth, but we own the stars,
With colonies on the moon, the asteroids, and Mars.
And the moons of Jupiter and Saturn, and beyond.
Millions of acres of farm and factory, raking in two kinds of green.
Feeding humanity, the breadbasket of the solar system is no longer earth.
And the white man? They are tourists with their cameras,
The old Japanese stereotype passed on to them,
As they marvel at all we've built, at all the green,
The same color they've become, with envy,
Because they were too 'yellow' to make green among the black,
Leaving that to the brown.
To us.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1346
You can comment either here or there.
“The Brown, The Green, and The Black”
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts
The white man took the world, spreading out among its lands by sea,
Exploiting all they touched, stealing the land from the people already there.
They stole the New World from the natives, killing the Red Man,
Bringing the Black Man from Africa as slaves to work for them.
They went to China, spread drug addiction and misery, for their profit,
And India for spices they never use, spreading misery to the cradle of writing.
Every bit of land they could find they took for theirs,
Exploiting its people even into the 21st century.
The white man went into space, and found no resources, no people to exploit,
So they grew bored with it, for the most part.
Sure, they sent their robots out to fly by far-off worlds,
Touched the moon a few times with their men, but then stopped.
“There's nothing in space but black,” they said,
Upset they'd made no green.
When the people of India and China started going up there, they scoffed.
“We wasted all that money going up there; they're not learning from our mistakes!”
They told us all there was in space was rocks and more rocks,
Forgetting there was a time when all we had were rocks;
All they let us have as they raped our lands were stones.
Like weeds growing in the sidewalk, they tried to kill us off,
So they could keep our lands for themselves.
But like weeds growing in the sidewalk, we persisted.
For life would always find a way, and we still lived.
We found the barren rocks they'd abandoned,
And grew like weeds among them.
In the black, we – the brown – made green.
The green of growth, as we built giant rotating farms in the sky.
From India and China, from Japan, from Africa,
From the Middle East, from the New World,
All the brown and red and yellow, every color but white,
Worldwide, we came together and spread through the black,
Making stone soup, growing life among the stars.
The white man still owns the earth, but we own the stars,
With colonies on the moon, the asteroids, and Mars.
And the moons of Jupiter and Saturn, and beyond.
Millions of acres of farm and factory, raking in two kinds of green.
Feeding humanity, the breadbasket of the solar system is no longer earth.
And the white man? They are tourists with their cameras,
The old Japanese stereotype passed on to them,
As they marvel at all we've built, at all the green,
The same color they've become, with envy,
Because they were too 'yellow' to make green among the black,
Leaving that to the brown.
To us.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1346
You can comment either here or there.
There once was a man in Nantucket,
Who married a man born in Phucket.
He got up one day,
Realized he was gay,
And now he bends over to suck it.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1341
You can comment either here or there.
Who married a man born in Phucket.
He got up one day,
Realized he was gay,
And now he bends over to suck it.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1341
You can comment either here or there.
Hey, ![[personal profile]](http://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
svaenohr and alex_antonin collaborated on a poem called "Capitalism Is Cannibalism." It's pretty cool.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1283
You can comment either here or there.
svaenohr and alex_antonin collaborated on a poem called "Capitalism Is Cannibalism." It's pretty cool.This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1283
You can comment either here or there.
I tend to have this problem, wherein I am usually a firm believer in an afterlife and reincarnation, but sometimes - usually at night when I'm trying to go to sleep - I get worried and terrified of death, thinking "What if there is no afterlife? What if there is no soul and nothing happens to us at death but blinking out of existence?"1 Well, since my main Goddess is a Chaos Goddess, I wrote up something that started as an attempt to make a simple chant or mantra or something to reassure myself that, if that turns out to be the case, it won't matter then. But I had too many ideas to fit into one mantra, so I made an entire poem about it. And here that is:
“Chaos To Chaos”
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts (Fayanora)
From Chaos I came and to Chaos I will return.
“I” am a complicated dance of quintillions of tiny points of energy, and my soul is the choreographer.
When the choreographer departs and the dance is over, the dancers will join other dances.
We're all choreographers of our own dancing energy, the only choreographers we can know in this life.
“I” am a temporary pattern in the chaos, in a temporary world, in a temporary universe;
All of us patterns in the Chaos,
Ever changing from second to second,
All of us sand paintings in the wind.
From Void I came and to Void I will return.
My life is a pebble in a pond, making ripples, the only thing left of my life when I am gone.
I shall not fear death, for I am not real;
I am like a virtual particle blinking in and out of existence, in the grand scheme of things;
A virtual particle in a holographic universe, the Multiverse every bit as ephemeral.
All of it whispers heard in static,
“Objective reality” via shared programming,
All of it a hard drive in an EMP.
From Naught I came, and to Naught I will return.
I shall not fear death, for I am just a temporary tempest of what-ifs and uncollapsed quantum states.
I am a hurricane contemplating its own eventual landfall.
I am a raindrop watching the ground approach at speed, contemplating the sudden stop.
I am a single breath, from the lungs to the blood, contemplating being exhaled.
All of us lightning in a storm,
Gone as quickly as we appear,
And all the world is the storm.
From Change I came, and to Change I will return.
I am like Jupiter's Great Red Spot, in a constant state of stable chaos.
But like all things, the stability will fail, the tempest will fall apart.
We are never not Change, it is the only constant in life;
Even death is just one facet of Change.
All of us are hurricanes,
Complex, multi-layered, and doomed to landfall,
But spinning off descendants before we do.
From Death I came, and to Death I will return.
My life is a fire, my body made of the ashes of other patterns tossed like logs onto my fire.
When my fire goes out, I will be a log tossed on the fires of other beings,
My ashes recycled, remade, reused; Life and Death eternal dance partners,
Entropy and Enthalpy embrace like lovers on the dance floor.
Gaia's biosphere is the phoenix,
Dying and being reborn from its own ashes;
The biosphere is Ouroboros eating itself.
From Peace I came, and to Peace I will return.
~ ~ ~
1 = Note that I never worry that the afterlife is worse, like Hell or something. I either believe in my own version of the afterlife, or I worry death is final.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1281
You can comment either here or there.
“Chaos To Chaos”
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts (Fayanora)
From Chaos I came and to Chaos I will return.
“I” am a complicated dance of quintillions of tiny points of energy, and my soul is the choreographer.
When the choreographer departs and the dance is over, the dancers will join other dances.
We're all choreographers of our own dancing energy, the only choreographers we can know in this life.
“I” am a temporary pattern in the chaos, in a temporary world, in a temporary universe;
All of us patterns in the Chaos,
Ever changing from second to second,
All of us sand paintings in the wind.
From Void I came and to Void I will return.
My life is a pebble in a pond, making ripples, the only thing left of my life when I am gone.
I shall not fear death, for I am not real;
I am like a virtual particle blinking in and out of existence, in the grand scheme of things;
A virtual particle in a holographic universe, the Multiverse every bit as ephemeral.
All of it whispers heard in static,
“Objective reality” via shared programming,
All of it a hard drive in an EMP.
From Naught I came, and to Naught I will return.
I shall not fear death, for I am just a temporary tempest of what-ifs and uncollapsed quantum states.
I am a hurricane contemplating its own eventual landfall.
I am a raindrop watching the ground approach at speed, contemplating the sudden stop.
I am a single breath, from the lungs to the blood, contemplating being exhaled.
All of us lightning in a storm,
Gone as quickly as we appear,
And all the world is the storm.
From Change I came, and to Change I will return.
I am like Jupiter's Great Red Spot, in a constant state of stable chaos.
But like all things, the stability will fail, the tempest will fall apart.
We are never not Change, it is the only constant in life;
Even death is just one facet of Change.
All of us are hurricanes,
Complex, multi-layered, and doomed to landfall,
But spinning off descendants before we do.
From Death I came, and to Death I will return.
My life is a fire, my body made of the ashes of other patterns tossed like logs onto my fire.
When my fire goes out, I will be a log tossed on the fires of other beings,
My ashes recycled, remade, reused; Life and Death eternal dance partners,
Entropy and Enthalpy embrace like lovers on the dance floor.
Gaia's biosphere is the phoenix,
Dying and being reborn from its own ashes;
The biosphere is Ouroboros eating itself.
From Peace I came, and to Peace I will return.
~ ~ ~
1 = Note that I never worry that the afterlife is worse, like Hell or something. I either believe in my own version of the afterlife, or I worry death is final.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1281
You can comment either here or there.
- Current Mood:
pensive
“Little Spark”
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts/Fayanora (Tristan A. Arts)
Take that little ember, take that little spark
And pull it on up and out of the dark.
Cup it in your hands and set it on some wood,
Gently blow upon it; yes, that's good.
Now watch that little spark grow into a blaze,
Flourishing under your compassionate gaze,
Til it becomes an inferno twenty feet high,
A tornado of flames reaching into the sky!
For this is the power of your inner spark,
Once you pull it on up and out of the dark.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1225
You can comment either here or there.
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts/Fayanora (Tristan A. Arts)
Take that little ember, take that little spark
And pull it on up and out of the dark.
Cup it in your hands and set it on some wood,
Gently blow upon it; yes, that's good.
Now watch that little spark grow into a blaze,
Flourishing under your compassionate gaze,
Til it becomes an inferno twenty feet high,
A tornado of flames reaching into the sky!
For this is the power of your inner spark,
Once you pull it on up and out of the dark.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1225
You can comment either here or there.
- Current Mood:
creative
Ayil'Kwahl'Ahgorah, Lady of the Wires,
And all the joys the Internet inspires,
Please unblock the clogs and speed my connection,
And put my computers under Your protection.
Please open the Facebook when it tries to stay closed,
And make all the servers work as they're supposed,
Please uncage the Twitter, keep the Tumblr rocking,
And stop any Net Nannies from their annoying blocking.
Give the LiveJournal CPR if there's a need,
And outfit my laptop for lightning-fast speed;
Keep the YouTube clear of clogs in the pipes,
And pave the way for my IM's and Skypes.
Please break down the walls that block all the bytes,
And keep the wifi running all day and all night.
Aid all the torrents and their data flood,
If You need it, I could offer my blood.
Ayil'Kwahl'Ahgorah, Thou art Motherboard,
So please help me out, waiting's got me bored.
Protect me from malware, smite spyware and worms,
And horribly evil Conditions And Terms.
And most important of all, stop the evil SOPA,
From letting corporations take the Internet over.
May scammers and spammers be wiped from the C:/
Ayil'Kwahl'Ahgorah, please help me.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1220
You can comment either here or there.
And all the joys the Internet inspires,
Please unblock the clogs and speed my connection,
And put my computers under Your protection.
Please open the Facebook when it tries to stay closed,
And make all the servers work as they're supposed,
Please uncage the Twitter, keep the Tumblr rocking,
And stop any Net Nannies from their annoying blocking.
Give the LiveJournal CPR if there's a need,
And outfit my laptop for lightning-fast speed;
Keep the YouTube clear of clogs in the pipes,
And pave the way for my IM's and Skypes.
Please break down the walls that block all the bytes,
And keep the wifi running all day and all night.
Aid all the torrents and their data flood,
If You need it, I could offer my blood.
Ayil'Kwahl'Ahgorah, Thou art Motherboard,
So please help me out, waiting's got me bored.
Protect me from malware, smite spyware and worms,
And horribly evil Conditions And Terms.
And most important of all, stop the evil SOPA,
From letting corporations take the Internet over.
May scammers and spammers be wiped from the C:/
Ayil'Kwahl'Ahgorah, please help me.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1220
You can comment either here or there.
- Current Mood:
weird
“Delicious Symphony”
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts (Fayanora)
My darling is like music, a symphony outstanding,
Each note a taste or texture to my way of understanding.
Her given name is sweet, like chocolate on my tongue,
But her surname, I know it not, or also 'twould be sung.
Yet it tastes of apples crisp to my imagination;
That I cannot verify this, causes consternation.
Her skin as gold as honey, and intoxicates like mead.
I felt it soft against my lips, and so my heart was freed.
Soft as Yanni music, more like Enya in its aspect,
I'd find her to declare my love, but I fancy not the prospect,
For I do not know her city, state, nor any contact info,
And there is little I'd not give to receive such data inflow.
My heartstrings thrummed a tune, her personality the pick,
Her soul of light the artist whose song made my pulse quick.
I bow in awe of her genius, both creator and masterpiece,
And the music of her being flows free like a caprice.
Her hair a roasted chestnut like in the Christmas carol,
And her voice, mellifluous, shines just like polished beryl.
Her eyes are dark mahogany, and hypnotic as a chant;
A century in her demesne would still be far too scant.
I would be her paladin, bound to serve my Queen of Fae;
That I cannot find her fills me with dismay.
The song is not where I can hear, I cannot find the singer;
But the melody left in my mind thankfully does linger.
I hope to find her once again, she is my sun at dawn,
So I can hear her symphony, it gives me a frisson.
If I could kiss her hand once more, I would be delighted!
Even moreso if my Queen would agree to have me knighted.
I would be her backup singer, her drummer, and her fan,
But unless I find her, I don't think that I can.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1208
You can comment either here or there.
By = Tempest Alexandria Arts (Fayanora)
My darling is like music, a symphony outstanding,
Each note a taste or texture to my way of understanding.
Her given name is sweet, like chocolate on my tongue,
But her surname, I know it not, or also 'twould be sung.
Yet it tastes of apples crisp to my imagination;
That I cannot verify this, causes consternation.
Her skin as gold as honey, and intoxicates like mead.
I felt it soft against my lips, and so my heart was freed.
Soft as Yanni music, more like Enya in its aspect,
I'd find her to declare my love, but I fancy not the prospect,
For I do not know her city, state, nor any contact info,
And there is little I'd not give to receive such data inflow.
My heartstrings thrummed a tune, her personality the pick,
Her soul of light the artist whose song made my pulse quick.
I bow in awe of her genius, both creator and masterpiece,
And the music of her being flows free like a caprice.
Her hair a roasted chestnut like in the Christmas carol,
And her voice, mellifluous, shines just like polished beryl.
Her eyes are dark mahogany, and hypnotic as a chant;
A century in her demesne would still be far too scant.
I would be her paladin, bound to serve my Queen of Fae;
That I cannot find her fills me with dismay.
The song is not where I can hear, I cannot find the singer;
But the melody left in my mind thankfully does linger.
I hope to find her once again, she is my sun at dawn,
So I can hear her symphony, it gives me a frisson.
If I could kiss her hand once more, I would be delighted!
Even moreso if my Queen would agree to have me knighted.
I would be her backup singer, her drummer, and her fan,
But unless I find her, I don't think that I can.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1208
You can comment either here or there.
- Current Mood: creative
Amy's grandmother recently died, and she has been naturally very upset. Last night I wrote this poem in honor of this woman I have never met, but who helped shape Amy into the wonderful young woman she is now:
“Morphahr Seh Taekah”
uuj = Fayanora Ahnabahn Tahlahmorgk
Karendai, grehn karendohr,
Karendai, uugaam morshaun,
Ko'kiln grehn, moisahl la aipahlih,
Tulon ehg mostaiso karendai-laniah,
Fiiehl bainah sada jophwaan.
Sehk sada zirrovais, grehj zirrkah kororra ahl;
Veh ulinit ihndohn voshet ahglor uugaam jayrahl.
Foht soh'kahlik, uugaam bain flo grehj zirrovais,
Ben morphahr seh taekah morphaikez.
Translation:
Despair, we weep,
Despair, they sleep,
Below us, under the world;
Yet as (we) feel despair-everlasting,
It is not their final farewell.
With their soul(s), ours is always one.1
And some day we'll see them joyously.
For present, they are in our heart,
The fire of love burning.
~ ~ ~
What I like best about it is that it rhymes in both languages, though the rhyme pattern is different. The pattern for the TPNN version is: ABCCB DDEE, while the English is AABCD EFGH. Okay, so not a great rhyme scheme, and not done on purpose really, but still interesting.
1 = The zirrkah is the part of the soul that lives in other people, so this is not an exact translation. But it's the best English can do.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1205
You can comment either here or there.
“Morphahr Seh Taekah”
uuj = Fayanora Ahnabahn Tahlahmorgk
Karendai, grehn karendohr,
Karendai, uugaam morshaun,
Ko'kiln grehn, moisahl la aipahlih,
Tulon ehg mostaiso karendai-laniah,
Fiiehl bainah sada jophwaan.
Sehk sada zirrovais, grehj zirrkah kororra ahl;
Veh ulinit ihndohn voshet ahglor uugaam jayrahl.
Foht soh'kahlik, uugaam bain flo grehj zirrovais,
Ben morphahr seh taekah morphaikez.
Translation:
Despair, we weep,
Despair, they sleep,
Below us, under the world;
Yet as (we) feel despair-everlasting,
It is not their final farewell.
With their soul(s), ours is always one.1
And some day we'll see them joyously.
For present, they are in our heart,
The fire of love burning.
~ ~ ~
What I like best about it is that it rhymes in both languages, though the rhyme pattern is different. The pattern for the TPNN version is: ABCCB DDEE, while the English is AABCD EFGH. Okay, so not a great rhyme scheme, and not done on purpose really, but still interesting.
1 = The zirrkah is the part of the soul that lives in other people, so this is not an exact translation. But it's the best English can do.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1205
You can comment either here or there.
"Poem of No-Praise For The Orphan-Maker"
A Gosgolot poem
ABAB
Though we're thankful for his rays,
Which keep the cold of Void at bay,
We dare not offer up our praise
Unto the ruthless lord of day
For fear his burning, staring eye,
That glares upon us from the skies,
Will notice us and make us die,
For he is more than Water's Demise.
Though we're grateful to our Host,
We pray he'll never notice us,
For we've no wish to be burnt toast,
And so we dare not raise a fuss
For fear The Screaming Death will wake
From his howling nightmare song
And cause us all to burn and bake
For doing something all too wrong.
Though we're grateful for his heat,
We dare not give him any prayer,
For if he heard us mewling meat,
He might then burn away the air,
So him don't summon, nor dare you call,
The Monarch of Ashes, not even once!
Just glance in fear at the Eye Which Burns All,
The Daily Reminder of Our Insignificance.
Instead we offer this No-Praise,
Aimed into the NIGHT time sky,
Quietly thankful for all our days,
Grateful that we're still alive.
The only prayer we give the night
Is to our Gods with mortal past,
To protect us from The Lord of Light,
In hopes these breaths won't be our last.
We also pray to our Kin Divine
To hear our constant, daily fears,
And on our love, attention, dine
So we may live a few more years.
And, oh Kindred, do also please
Take away our grief and pain,
Our burdens we need help to ease.
Sahn-kia, Koh Soh La Kohrain.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1170
You can comment either here or there.
A Gosgolot poem
ABAB
Though we're thankful for his rays,
Which keep the cold of Void at bay,
We dare not offer up our praise
Unto the ruthless lord of day
For fear his burning, staring eye,
That glares upon us from the skies,
Will notice us and make us die,
For he is more than Water's Demise.
Though we're grateful to our Host,
We pray he'll never notice us,
For we've no wish to be burnt toast,
And so we dare not raise a fuss
For fear The Screaming Death will wake
From his howling nightmare song
And cause us all to burn and bake
For doing something all too wrong.
Though we're grateful for his heat,
We dare not give him any prayer,
For if he heard us mewling meat,
He might then burn away the air,
So him don't summon, nor dare you call,
The Monarch of Ashes, not even once!
Just glance in fear at the Eye Which Burns All,
The Daily Reminder of Our Insignificance.
Instead we offer this No-Praise,
Aimed into the NIGHT time sky,
Quietly thankful for all our days,
Grateful that we're still alive.
The only prayer we give the night
Is to our Gods with mortal past,
To protect us from The Lord of Light,
In hopes these breaths won't be our last.
We also pray to our Kin Divine
To hear our constant, daily fears,
And on our love, attention, dine
So we may live a few more years.
And, oh Kindred, do also please
Take away our grief and pain,
Our burdens we need help to ease.
Sahn-kia, Koh Soh La Kohrain.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1170
You can comment either here or there.
- Current Mood:
thankful
"Depression Is"
by= Tristan A. Arts
Depression is a constant, never-ending cycle of stress,
With lots of ups and downs.
The ups are not escapes, just reprieves,
As fleeting as a mayfly in the antarctic.
Depression is a background radiation of frustration,
Life is never good enough no matter how hard you try.
There's always something, even if it's just a feeling,
As hard to shake off as a psychotic stalker.
Depression is never having enough energy,
No matter how simple the task may be.
Even things I want to do, I can't,
Without a lot of breaks.
Depression is my emotions stuck on negative,
Stealing my ability to choose happiness.
Positive thinking doesn't help,
And affirmations only ring hollow.
Depression is NOT constant sadness;
Usually, it's a neutral state close to, or including, apathy.
Mixed, often, with stress, frustration, and general malaise,
Sometimes with good reason, but usually without.
Depression is like trying to drive a car
That is never in the right gear,
And there is no way to fix the "transmission"
Because nobody in the world even knows how it works.
Depression is being at constant war with your body,
Mysterious aches and pains coming and going all the time,
Because the TV ads have it correct:
Depression hurts.
Depression is a problem in the hardware of the brain,
Not in the software of the mind.
You can't just choose to be happy and normal,
Any more than you can read a CD with a muffler.
Depression is trying lots of different treatments,
That may or may not work, all with different side effects.
For all that scientists know about the brain,
Anti-depressants may as well be trepanning.
And most of all, depression is not a choice.
Telling me to "just get over it" doesn't help.
I can no more stop being depressed than
A cancer patient can just "choose" to be cured.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1115
You can comment either here or there.
by= Tristan A. Arts
Depression is a constant, never-ending cycle of stress,
With lots of ups and downs.
The ups are not escapes, just reprieves,
As fleeting as a mayfly in the antarctic.
Depression is a background radiation of frustration,
Life is never good enough no matter how hard you try.
There's always something, even if it's just a feeling,
As hard to shake off as a psychotic stalker.
Depression is never having enough energy,
No matter how simple the task may be.
Even things I want to do, I can't,
Without a lot of breaks.
Depression is my emotions stuck on negative,
Stealing my ability to choose happiness.
Positive thinking doesn't help,
And affirmations only ring hollow.
Depression is NOT constant sadness;
Usually, it's a neutral state close to, or including, apathy.
Mixed, often, with stress, frustration, and general malaise,
Sometimes with good reason, but usually without.
Depression is like trying to drive a car
That is never in the right gear,
And there is no way to fix the "transmission"
Because nobody in the world even knows how it works.
Depression is being at constant war with your body,
Mysterious aches and pains coming and going all the time,
Because the TV ads have it correct:
Depression hurts.
Depression is a problem in the hardware of the brain,
Not in the software of the mind.
You can't just choose to be happy and normal,
Any more than you can read a CD with a muffler.
Depression is trying lots of different treatments,
That may or may not work, all with different side effects.
For all that scientists know about the brain,
Anti-depressants may as well be trepanning.
And most of all, depression is not a choice.
Telling me to "just get over it" doesn't help.
I can no more stop being depressed than
A cancer patient can just "choose" to be cured.
This was cross-posted from http://fayanora.dreamwidth.org/1115
You can comment either here or there.
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