I am scum

Deep impression
Deeply pressed in

Being pressed down by…life?

I am weak, but I am heavy.
So, so heavy.
So dense I am made by being crushed so hard.

I am so numb,
maybe as a defense…
because all the emotions are so intense in all directions.

Running away.
Running away.
Sharing the tip of the iceberg.

I am so heavy and sad.
This state always tells me that it’s here to STAY,
that it’s actually my natural state.

Are you here to stay?
Of course you are…but are you who I really am?
You come in…making me feel oh so hopeless.
So hopeless.

I cannot talk myself out of it, because none of me believes that I am anything more than this…all I can do is observe it. Play with it. Write about it. Describe it. That feels distancing, but I’m still in the smog. Thick and nasty and suffocating me. There are no expectations because I am shitty to begin with. I try and try and try but it’s hard when I am dirt and just fall back to the ground. That’s where I reside, always. It’s the wind that picks me up…momentarily until I get to fall back to my natural resting place. The dirt. I am dirt. I am shit. It’s just how it is, I’m not being hard on myself. It’s just how it is. I’m not being mean to myself, I am just politely seeing the truth. It’s relaxing to realize my true state, because I don’t need to wear my masks. I can relax and just be me. A scumbag, worthless, taking from the world and never giving. Ego tries to play me up to more than what I really am. But I can only play myself up so far before I remember: I am worthless. The thought of that makes me feel settled.

I’m not trying to be emo, or dramatic. I’m just trying to understand myself. This is the only thing that makes sense. I AM depression. I am the dirt, the scum. Actually no, scum and dirt implies that it was once something? I was never anything. I am nothing. (But I am still dirt and scum).

I am scum and that is true and simple. Might as well have fun with it? I have nothing to lose because I have nothing. I can only go up from here…maybe, idk, except I am nothing.

You ask how I’m doing…

But do you really care?

When I answer truthfully I scare you off.
Is it my honestly?
My dreams?
My pathetic excitement and curiosity in my own life?

You shut me down and criticize me for answering the way I did.
(Whatever that was)
So I am conditioned to not open up.
I close myself off to you.

This pattern cycles around in circles like the seasons.

I begin to think
“What if you are right?”
and I really have palty aspirations
that don’t offer anything to anyone,
that I’m not valuable,
that me being on Earth and me not existing wouldn’t make a difference to you, or anyone.

If anything, it would be less of a hassle if there was less of me..

So why do you ask how I’m doing?

Sorry for the depressing ass shit lately. It’s a phase I’m going through, hopefully. Luckily, I’m remembering how therapeutic writing poetry is for me…you reading this probably understand

“I want to die”

What is this voice inside of me that keeps on saying “I want to die”?

It scares me.

Do I really want to die?

Is it my fate to pass over even before I pass the age to get off my dad’s health insurance plan?

I hope not.

But the voice that wants to die is so loud…
so determined…
to make itself heard and make me FEEL the pain in those words

I justify the dialogue by saying
“It’s just an aspect of my personality that wants to die.”

But how can I be so sure
that those words
“I want to die”
don’t mean all of me?