THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY IN DEPRESSION

/Blessed are those who dead

cursed are us, who exist /

This summer 

I turned twenty _three.

A natural thing,

a normal phase.

But tell me,

which is the scariest part:

To exist with a heart 

beyond mending, or 

being broken in 

a young tender age?

Life,

a giant snail

with monstrous pangs,

the wicked wind

stealing dandelions.

I see the world in

black and white:

a cruel place where 

happiness an alien,

an occasional visitor.

It smells of 

cigarette butts soaked 

in the first rain, 

of white chrysanthemums

in a child's grave.

I dream  of myself 

occasionaly

and see 

a bloated corpse,

ugly, light as feather,

swimming without trying,

hands free_

a mermaid in contact 

with the land.

I am  a goldfish 

moving in a glass bowl:

do you calm it freedom?

"Have hope, trust in god"

I hear_ rubbish! 

How can I believe

in a god that would

deny me 

life and death?

Still,

god,

if you are looking 

at me with your 

million year old year,

lend me your ears 

for the prayers

of this sinner:

Spring me free,

will you?

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