Tag: Depression

Let the order be handed down

by sidcorvid

Let the order be handed down,
Let the world know
That the traitor, this terror,
Is bound to be bound and burned.

For his crimes of neglect,
For his crime of betrayal,
Friends must forget forgiveness,
Kin can’t console the killer.

Dress him in the finest garb,
Dress him as a martyred hero,
For the finest of flattery
Makes the most morose mockery.

Set a torch under his aching feet.
Set a fire in the hearts of none.
Time won’t tarnish thought
Of fiends freely forgotten.

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Is it already past midnight?

by sidcorvid

It’s already past midnight?

I guess I’ll sleep when I sleep,
Rest’s not that important.

Instead, I’ll keep cadence
Reminiscing on cadence,
Waiting for Taps.

I crumple the sheets, a failure contemplating:
What is it that makes a man?
What struggle overcome?
What prize attained?

I don’t know, dude.
I can’t honestly say I have a clue.
What am I even striving for?

Anyway, it’s over now,
And I’ve gotta move on.

Can’t say it’ll be easy, though.

Is there a rhyme to this?

by sidcorvid

Is there a rhyme to this?
Falling into Theta
With the taste of Xanax in my throat?
I just need another smoke.

I don’t know what I want anymore,
I barely remember my name some days.
Still I’ll stress over the small things.

I’ll still worry about the evanescent manner of your affection,
The calories in my dinner,
The increased rate of my suicidal ideations.

Shit, did I just miss my exit?
Someday I’ll reach the shore,
Maybe drown myself in the ocean,

And embrace the cold embrace of the winter tide.

But that’s thinking too far down the road,

Right now, I’ve just got to get home
Where there’s still scotch in the bottle.

What is the sound of shit hitting the fan?

by sidcorvid

With blood blued on my sweater

And infection taking root in my burn,

I deny my own desire.

Self-worth is overstated, overrated.

Rhyme is a poor man’s crime,

And I want you.

Arrogant in thought.

I didn’t expect this to be easy,

And you are worth working for,

Worth creating my own world and path.

Still, they ask what my story will be.

They wonder what I’ll achieve

Through an illuminated life.

A better question is,

What is the sound of shit hitting the fan?

I deserve nothing,

Have earned little,

And the future remains hidden.