This Is Not A Poem, It’s A Dilemma

I met an angel
And I don’t mean that in the corny way guys refer to girls these days
I met a girl that literally made me not recall my middle name
She’s the type of beautiful that makes colours have sound and music smell like expensive cologne
Her face would make you forget about wanting to kill yourself for a second
If you ever saw a flower so stunning it made you smile on a bad day
A flower so appealing, even the hardest guy you know looked at it and said, “that flower kinda looks nice”
A flower that smells like heaven
What would you do, if you ever came across such a flower?
Would you pluck if off, or just leave it right there so someone else can appreciate the perfection?
I’m literally in a jinx, because I know I want you
Scratch that, I need you. I don’t want to let you go
But I also know I’m not worth you, and would hurt you if I tried to pluck you
Do you believe you could meet your soul mate at the wrong time?
I wish we met for the first time next year
This is a dilemma

This Poem Is A Lie

It is better to be happy than to be pretty, or maybe not.
I remember it well, the first time I was depressed
The first time I felt the blackness of hell in the hollows of my belly
I never was suicidal, but I somehow wanted to stop living
I no longer wanted to continue in this realm I once relished
Have you ever felt your chest suddenly tighten and you no longer can breathe?
The darkness swoon in through your oesophagus and your brain shuts down
You see, depression isn’t a feeling, it’s a sickness
One that has no particular drugs or treatment around
Doomed in the bottomless pit of cyclothymia
In the eventualities of my suicidal heart
I’m down in the depth of all my gory days
In the charade that you have all termed a smile
Darkness no longer is a visitor, she moved in to my life
Someone once said the best way to stop being depressed is to love the depression
Cos it would leave you too, just like everybody you’ve ever loved
I persuaded myself cutting my wrist would release enough serotonin to convince me I am happy after I realized it was the same disease that killed Jesus (Depression; that’s a story for another day)
The fastest way to grow tough skin is to get burned and I’ve been burned a lot
Scars are what make us human, scars are what make us human – I retort
Scars are what made God human, Jesus
After all the rejection and pain, the only thing he could not commit to was a grave
Scars are a proof of healing, a proof of previous battles fought and won
They are a proof you are like Jesus, for even he has scars in his wrists
Scars are a proof He is alive, a proof of his divinity, of your divinity
And the proof of his healing, the proof of your healing.
So maybe, this isn’t so bad.
Maybe I shouldn’t be ashamed I want to die – Jesus wasn’t.
Maybe.