Is there a cure
For my sadness?
They say: sure
Go exercise
Go eat healthy and
Sleep plenty,
Imagining that your mind
Is like a bucket
With littles holes
On the bottom
And the water
(Your happiness, you see)
Keeps pouring right
Through them,
But the little things
That make us "us",
The bland holy trinity:
Eating, sleeping,
Fucking
(As if you are a pervert
In a farm
Getting pleasures off pigs)
These things you are
Supposed to do repeatedly
Over and over and over
So that they, just like rain,
Could refill your broken
Bucket
That some might call
Soul.
Please, spare me the labour
For I might
Not want to be cured
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Poems of a depressed man
PoesíaSome poems about everything that comes into the mind of a depressed teenager. Some might be nice and happy (you want proof: have a nice day), some might be harsh and with lots of sick irony (fuck you, how original, no?), just as my life is. One seco...
