Growing Into the Death

Redemption Song

I. Depression.

Stumbling clumsily

falling out of the flow

nothing seems to feel right

darkness is shrouding your glow.


Time just is a fleeting endlessness

perpetually feeling relentless uselessness

every day it becomes harder

to put on clothes,

to wash and bathe yourself

but the fact that you can

–but don’t–

only verifies you’re not fooling yourself.


Every week becoming

unquantifiably more difficult than the one that preceded it

but it’s okay right?

You’re supposed to find your strength amidst your weaknesses?


The people you identify as ‘friend’ and ‘family’

begin to feel like vultures

all picking at your violable flesh

and only caring virtually



*     *     *

II. Anxiety.

In my eyes, in my face, in my heart

in my words and my acts

all tearing me apart.


I lay my intellectual rigor out there for you

like a buffet to be consumed

and for whom?


What will this hollow philosophy degree do for me?

It will sit on my wall,

collect dust

and begin for me


The rest of my life in financial ruin-

no career,

no one cares

for this life I’ve chosen.


They tell you

from their tenured position,

to shoot for the stars

–or don’t–

because ‘follow your unrelenting passion’

but who are they kidding?


This ain’t even considering

life outside of those towers

where don’t nothing matter

about my intellectual fodder.


Because *oops!* I was born

dark black and nappy-headed,

but I’m still not doing it right

because I use ‘creamy crack’

and ain’t natural nor dreaded.


I also happen to accidentally

have “decided” to be queer,

which according to normativity

seems to be the sum of all fears.


I come equipped with

a little political prisoner called a vulva,

with a giant clitoris on top

which apparently is just NOT to speak of.


And sorry-not-sorry

for thinking my queer black ass


in a society where

I’m raised to believe that because of who I am

I am meant to wander


In no specific direction

but the downward spiral that is my sociopolitical space

having very few ‘real’ friends

outside of cyberspace.


And I don’t have many friends there to speak of-

broken hearts


dreams torn apart from mistrust.

*     *     *

III. Mind & Body.

All you keep thinking is,

“I’m too old for this shit,”

when in fact you’re too young-

you’ve just been feeding the vultures

and you’re all ripped apart and undone.


And there’s no answers

and definitely no resolution.

There’s no peace

and no resurrection.


All there is

is the unrelenting pressure of your flesh

being ripped apart,


and kept


away from your grasp,

–and all you want to DO is grasp it–

it’s too late

and no one cares to unmask it.

Written by Me on 4.6.15

Because I know I’m not alone.





About thepsych1

I am a natural progression. As I learn and grow, so does this blog as a reflection of myself. Poetry Art Videos Critique Let's collaborate. Bring your friends.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s