A Poetry about Manic Depression

If only I could
Get up,
make my bed,
Raise the blinds,
without
feeling otherworldly heft
on top of my chest
hands wrapped around my mouth
and nose
making me gasp for air,
and life.

If only I could
Get up,
Do my hair,
Take a shower,
without
being bogged down by the shackles
with weights attached to them,
dragging my existence down
like the soap and scum that’s
being sucked into the drain.

If only I could
get up,
look at myself in the mirror,
rehearse a smile,
for the empty auditorium inside me
without
wanting to bleed tears,
wishing the mirror to crack somehow,
letting the shards pierce
my everything
until I eventually disappear.

If only I could
get up
marvel at the shining sun,
the chirping birds and the blooming flowers.

If only I could,
sit on my chair,
clean this mess,
write a poem.

If only I could….

2 thoughts on “A Poetry about Manic Depression

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