Devil of Depression

Tue, 04/26/2016 - 10:22 -- Osicap6

I was told to write  my feelings down,  so I inked pain on a piece of torn paper, instead of etching  it onto my skin. I wrote  with ink instead of my blood. So why  did the tears  fall the same? And why did my heart   ache the same?  Thoughts crystallised into words, which gradually  commenced to congest  the once barren  ripped page. Dark words devoured  by destruction, despair and death. A word continued to resurface forming once, twice  and reforming once again as I placed ink  to ripped paper. Broken. Broken heart.  Broken love. Broken home. Broken girl. Broken glass.  Broken soul. Broken.  A broken daughter  half living  a half broken life. Death lurking  within her broken mind,  unshed tears  sparkling in her lifeless eyes. But, maybe, her eyes, pervaded,  with the dank look of desolation, could be vanquished  by holy angelic light, which could transform the bleakness   into sheer infantile euphoria. Maybe, the broken home, surfeited with the aching torment, that haunts her, could be left behind as a negligible memory,  drifting in the forgotten past. Maybe, the metaphorical broken glass, that tore apart her bleeding heart, could be thrown away, into the oblivion, obliterated and finished for eternity. Maybe, the broken girl, with time and affection, could be mended  and stitched back together. Maybe, the broken heart, with utmost protection  and nursing, could be healed once more.  And maybe, just maybe, the broken love, with the one of God, pure and true, when penetrated through  to her very core, could be reconstructed  to be undeniably whole and beautiful.   

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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