Three poems I wrote over a year and a half ago when I was living in NYC, and I first started struggling with my current major depressive episode:

Still awake.
5:00 in the morning.

In an apartment that I can
barely afford.
An apartment that feels like the
size of a shoebox.

In a city that is supposed to hold
limitless opportunities.
A city that can chew you up and
spit you back out.

It has me thinking about
my life.
Thinking about how I got here,
and if this life is for me.

Maybe it’s just the
booze talking.

Want to sleep.
Can’t sleep.
Body aches.
Aches from sadness.
Sadness that has
taken over.

Sadness that I
can’t escape.

My only escape
is sleep.
But my body
and my mind
won’t let me

I guess I’ll just
light another
and pour another
That will have
to do.

For now.

I feel dead inside.
I feel nothing.
Devoid of feeling.

Like my body is still there,
but my soul is gone.
My cigarette goes out.
I light another one.

I take a sip of my drink.
And another.
It’s the only way
I can feel anything.

It’s fucked up.
The only way I can
feel alive
is to get fucked up.

Get so fucked up that
I feel something.
Soberness will be
the death of


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