conversation with my depression

"I'm not the judge nor jury

so why babble on in a fury

a fiery speech in your defence

I'm just the hunter and you the prey

-nature intended it this way"

talking about my generation

or tripple X and tripple ex:es

subscribing pills to outlive

the middleclass guilt

of having it to easy

the modern guilt

of being so damn sleazy

will you still crave her in the morning after

or be satisfied with a facebook friend

would you like a game of blind mans bluff

do you want to try for fame?

the ambition is running wild in here

- a shelter for our shame

should I pretend to have forgotten

should I pretend to remember your name

how do you like this face I wear

I picked it out especially for today

would you like a game of truth or dare

do you still to try for fame?

I've been the blue sky
fighting through the dark clouds
before your eyes
and now I want a vacation
from this strife

I've been the balance
you've lacked
and now I want to fall myself
right over the edge
of my mind

I've been your alibi,
and I've sung you lullabies
for days, for hours at end
now I'm too tired
to get myself out of bed

and now I hear you say
how do you dare not to answer my calls?
I demand you to be here
to see me through it all

and now I hear you pray
how do you dare to let yourself fall?
what help are you,
when you can only crawl?

it's too cold to sit here outside
but I pretend the street lights is really sunshine
- and who are you to tell me that I'm wrong?
that the flowers are really strip club flyers
and that it's just the traffic, not city birds' song

it's too cold to sit here in the park
but I pretend it's summer to warm my heart
- and who are you to tell me that I don't belong?
that the park is really the city graveyard
and the bench is some poor bastard's tomb?

This is where inspiration goes to die
we all perform the last rites
in between the mingling crowd
and the many glasses of wine

This is a cemetery for creativity
and the slow death of ideas.
We mold ourself into black shirts and converse
to prove we are rebellious enough to fit in

This is where our ambition
slaughters our inspiration.
This is what we hate to love
and where we strive to belong.


---


We struggle along
this path we claim chose us
when really we stumbled upontin
and claim to have chosen

We huff and we puff
to appear almost capable
we huff and we puff
and pretend we're not exchangable


--

Fuck all Art
(with a capital A)
snaring me
(and I let it)
to contempt myself
(while still proud if fitting in)
Fuck the fact
(and I guess that's Fuck and Fact
with a capital F)
that I still love T. S. Eliot

I sit alone here in this room for the socially stigmatized. The modern lepers. The left over smokers. Here, the cigarette burns have drawn their patterns on the heavy wooden surface. The wallpapers are faded and yellow from age, tear and smoke. What life does a gleaming surface have? Only the used have personality - only the abused have integrity. And so I tenderly offer my ashes, my lipstick stained cigarette buds, to the room and leave to join the others.