(Dashes equal a beat.

The ellipsis is a long pause.

A poem wrote at 15/16, then revised.)

My life isn’t as bad as it seems,

that even in the darkness there are beams,

Of light that shine through.

 

And yet I spiral into a vortex of depression,

Like the recession of an economy.

 

I don’t call it depression.

Hell No!

That would be like a blow in my entrails.

A pain, I fear. So sharp that:

it would drag my soul so low

and so close to the edge of …

Nothingness!

 

Somehow in my screwed-up head,

Acknowledging it is equivalent to a failure.

 

So I hold my resistance,

And ignore the existence,

Of that phantom word that I try so hard to erase.

Or at least to fade into the haze,

Of a thousand other words.

 

From the moment I was born,

I’ve always been a fighter.

But piece by piece, I am torn,

By a black whole we call life.

 

It’s like I’m trapped in a whirlpool of: ‘I don’t know,

who I am, what to do or where to go’?

 

My feelings are like the past of alphabet soup,

So confused that I am stuck in a loop,

Of destruction.

 

When I’m alone my face is a perfect reflection,

Of the conflict that is going through my head.

So even in the delusion,

I am led to the conclusion,

That there must be something wrong with - me.

 

The Lights start to dim,

the gleam of hope fades.

My life passes me by in a constant routine.

 Now that I am eighteen

 I grasp onto consciousness,

Realizing and felling like I’m not as happy as I seem.

 

At 21 I look back,

At those dark day I had.

I am glad I am now on track,

To a better life and a better place.

-- By Aurora Faustini