Archive for the ‘Депрессия’ Category

Wonder Wm chloroformed & kidnapped

“Living the Dream”?

Where I thought I wanted to be,

but it’s not what it should have been.

It’s been bruised and spattered,

descrated and shattered.

People and situations, systems and forces

have intervened.

And it’s gone,

like a hazy morning dream

gets forgotten on waking.

Living the dream?

It’s a real nightmare!

 

(To be continued…)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

2014.01.29

Nothing is impossible,

it seems,

except improvement

of situation.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

2017-07-08, 2335.55

Everybody but me

seems intrinsically happy,

satisfied,

moods improved by sunshine and warmth.

This apparent reality depresses me even more,

isolated,

feeling nauseous to the core,

violated.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Fetal Position 2

Quiet desperation?

Somewhat true,

my pain manifests quietly

on the outside,

like: I don’t want to talk,

as,

explaining pain

hurts some more again.

I sigh,

and walk away.

Inside though,

is a cacophony

of grotesque,

blasting noise,

on and on and on,

torturing,

deafening

and deadening

my soul.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Crumbling edifice

washed away,

piece by piece,

falling rain.

Shit! We’re all fake.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Confronted with an unexpected, inane, remark,

I reply equally stupidly.

Such is dialog,

communication today.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Time passes and context proves the undoing

of everything you hoped would be.

Like, this afternoon’s enlightening sentiment

buried by tonight’s depleted body

and spat-upon soul.

Still, the clock keeps ticking,

yes, the fucking clock,

the calendar,

people,

and various rodents,

continue,

conspire,

torment,

suck you dry.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

The Sun beats down,

all day long.

In the drought

and in the desert,

it’s oppressive.

No respite.

The Sun beats down,

all the long daylight hours.

… And when you’re beaten down,

it’s hard to get up.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Sitting on the bus

with the other convicts,

varying extents of self-awareness

on display,

I realize,

despite our differences

and hatreds,

we’re all the same.

Screwed.

Prisoners

of the choices

we’ve made

and/or

been forced into,

our names

long since signed away,

hopes and dreams

but a fading,

mocking,

memory.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

She tells me about her friend

and her problems,

so many problems:

medical, emotional, financial,

personal, general, universal.

She’s been mistreated and hard-done-by,

truly.

And to top it off,

she’s just turned 30,

she’s depressed,

she suddenly feels old.

Poor baby.

My heart bleeds.

With all her problems,

I believe,

she’s lucky she’s feeling anything.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat