Archive for the ‘Депрессия’ Category

Crumbling edifice

washed away,

piece by piece,

falling rain.

Shit! We’re all fake.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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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

 

Life, in this place and time:

a series of banal and futile exertions for which,

ultimately,

there is no thanks.

What hope?

What point?

What future?

Indeed.

And yet,

so many of us feel compelled

to breed.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Remembering classic novels,

fairy tales,

inherited wisdom

of what you are meant to do,

I gaze deeply into his eyes,

hoping to see a sparkle,

a reflection of love

looking back at me.

But I am disappointed,

the eyes don’t shine,

they are flat,

devoid of any emotion

but pain and hopelessness.

The eyes are the window to a soul

of pain.

I look away.

All I can think of is death,

dead dreams, loss,

murdered opportunities,

life sucked dry.

… Sadness personified.

If I was the type,

I would cry.

And,

as I feel him squeeze my hand,

I wonder whether the eyes I saw

were in fact his

or

a reflection of mine.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Some people seem to like

the constant struggle

of life in this world.

The ceaseless battle

motivates and stimulates,

providing willpower

to get up each morning.

Other people

are repulsed

and sucked dry

by such futility.

They know they’ll never win

in this corrupt system.

For them,

deep thinkers

and bottom feeders,

life is a kind of death.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Tired.

Drained.

Another day gone.

Taken.

Deceived.

What have I achieved?

What meaning has this thing called life?

Despair.

Frustration.

Despair.

Smoothness of pubis,

he gropes.

And finally

I understand procreation’s purpose

(perverted creation):

a plea for help,

a desperate hope,

that some day

someone

will give enough of a shit

to rescue me.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat