Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
|—||Holy sonnet 10 by John Donne|
Depression sucks. Having to wear a smile like a mask doubting your own sanity wanting to run all the tim incappable of expressing how i feel. Even this doesn’t come close.
Let me hook up my heart to your year and let my tears be your morphine.
Cause maybe it’s easier for you to slip away. Than say. “Goodbye.”
Sometimes I hate having Bipolar. There are times when who you are is sucked away from you and replaced with this vileness no even a pig would spit. You become angry at every little thing doubt and hate friends, family, yourself.
The sun is ripped out the sky and replaced with dark hale filled nights. No joy can come of you. Everything seems as if conspiring against you. Whether it true or not.
You feel you can’t talk to anyone even those close cause its too repetitive a problem and they (to your decrepid mind) already hate you so why throw fuel on the fire. Better to be isolated isn’t it? - that doesn’t even come close while every second your mind repeatedly tells you how much of a C**t you are.