Depression is not a game
The lights did not fade... they were devoured, one by one, by an unseen mouth that knew my name before I did.
In the hollow they left, a sickening silence took root, thick as dried blood, heavy as a sealed coffin, cold as a forgotten corpse that refuses to decay.
This is not sadness.
It is an abyss with lungs, a darkness breathing down my neck, slowly chewing through the hours until every minute loses its face and every day forgets its name.
The world has become a lifeless pane of glass; beyond it, colors bleed into shadows, voices drown before reaching me, and hope hangs by a worn thread shivering before it breaks.
There is no dawn here.
Only an endless night, an eternal winter, where the sun has forgotten I ever existed, and time walks barefoot across the ruins of my soul.
My chest is an abandoned house, its doors chained shut, its windows buried beneath dust.
Ghosts sit beside me in silence, while the darkness learns to whisper my name.
Only my heartbeat remains, stubborn, like a dying candle refusing to surrender, reminding me that, even among the ruins, something still breathes...
though it has long forgotten what it felt like to be alive.
@newgirldark
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Autor:
NewGirlDark (Seudónimo) (
Offline) - Publicado: 8 de julio de 2026 a las 15:36
- Comentario del autor sobre el poema: Depression is not a game.
- Categoría: Triste
- Lecturas: 10
- Usuarios favoritos de este poema: Poesía Herética, Javier Julián Enríquez, Santiago Alboherna, JordiCris
- En colecciones: Poems.
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Comentarios3
Wow, is very stronger...
Dear friend,
Thank you so much for this beautiful poem. The profound desolation described herein transcends mere melancholic sentiment, manifesting as an existential void. This void is characterized by an absence of light and pervasive silence, signifying overwhelming entropy that consumes one's essence. The text describes a state of profound loneliness, where the outside world is an impenetrable barrier, making connection and sensory experience futile. This condition is not transient sorrow, but rather a fundamental negation of existence—a descent into an abyss where time loses meaning and the self becomes a desolate landscape. The internal experience is depicted as a spectral haunting: a desolate interiority where the echoes of life are faint vestiges. The persistent, albeit faltering, heartbeat symbolizes a profoundly diminished yet enduring flicker of consciousness—a testament to existence in extremis, devoid of the vitality of lived experience.
Receive my warmest greetings
A beautiful and poignant poem. I always say that poetry has the power to bring beauty where there is ugliness, light where there is darkness, smiles where there are tears, and hope where there is desolation. Remember that no matter how dark the night, the sun always rises.
Congrats on yout work
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