those buzzkill teenage years

we were happy once

back when we were but children, giggling

at the minute moments

innocent, but ignorant.

not yet accustomed to the term depression

how sweet it was, to be unaware

 

we were young then

still having our mothers arrange our playdates

and oh, we were so excited for our futures

we imagined merry teenagers gabbing in a park

with hushed voices and high pitched chortles

doing things that we, ourselves, swore to never, ever do

we longed for the knowledge of our fate,

not yet knowing of the future that awaited us

 

what a shame, what a shame (that all dreams must die someday)

we are older now

with somber eyes, masked by a perfectly mastered s m i l e

we have our moments, but the elation is gone

we are no longer giddy for our futures with such inextinguishable passion

we are simply too busy trying to stay alive

beneath the stacks of duties and responsibilities

and society’s expectations, that yes, we can do this

of course we can juggle this and that, attain perfection

while initiating combat against our fragmented minds day by loathsome day

 

if we live to have children, we will look at them

and wish for them to never grow old

because with age, comes knowledge

which in turn, comes hand in hand with great tragedy

we hope they will never know the real definition of sad

the empty pit gnawing at us deep inside

the lack of dopamine, the loss of the ability to feel

we hope they will never need to learn the skill

to tell your mind to shut up

to keep on living when your body aches, when you question everything

from the nature of your existence, to whether it is even worth it at all

(we want to live, we just have no idea how)

 

now we complete our homework with empty monotony

feeling no emotion (we are hollow with exhaustion)

silly child, grades will always be more important than your sanity

and sometimes our eyes gleam with hope

that one day, it will get better, and we will finally be happy

but for now, we wait, in our bedrooms, our minds pounding

trying not to think think think

about anything beyond our assignments, anything that can trigger us

to truly want to pick up daddy’s big ol’ gun and pull that trigger

(we wish we were children again, unafflicted by life)

 

we are the kids of carmine hues

this is our secret, the one we all know (but never speak of)

for the only thing worse than a failed test is a shrink (what the fuck is wrong with you, freak?)

we are the teenagers terrified of our own minds

with coping strategies that our parents never taught us

they still view us as children, you know

they still view us from the time when

we were happy once

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741