Some time ago
I died.
I could feel it then,
Though I couldn't explain
What the feeling was.
I still breathe,
Still move numbly about my routine,
But I do not live.

Depression has stolen
My childhood from me;
The simple games
I once loved and cherished
Now hold no pleasure for me.
I can neither smile
Nor cry;
I can only hate
With a such a pure bitterness
All who have vitality
And love life.

Depression has also kept from me
The pride and maturity
Of being adult.
I cannot grow
In its darkness,
So I remain neither child nor adult,
Neither living nor really dead.

I wait and learn only the feeling
Of dying from the inside
Before the outside.

I do not even know what I wait for.
Happiness?
Depression has removed
Such idle hopes
From my mind.
What then?
Perhaps a more literal death?
Though I long for it
With such a horrid desperation,
I fear it.
I do not know why,
But the fear keeps me
Clinging to my half-life,
Learning only to hate all the more
Every day I draw breath.

I can do nothing more
But wait
And rot
And dream of the end I fear.
It does not matter though.
I am dead already,
And nothing can bring back the dead.
All I can do is exist,
Not as a child or adult,
Not as the living or the dead,
Just as a shadow
Of the person I once was.

chisa96 04

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