Poetry Books About Depression Mga Nobela at Kwento

"Yes, Perer. If you would mind telling me, please do." "Today, I thought about my depression and how it has been eating me slowly. Do you know what depression is?" "Yes I do," the therapist replied. "Well," I continued. "My depression has been feeding on me slowly. It has taken total control of my body and it is washing me away. Today, I heard the sound of the drum in my bedroom. The sound was not sharp neither was it clear. It was just there. It was from the sound of the drum that I learnt how long it takes for someone to die before he realize he is dead."

No matter how many covers or quilts I use, I still felt the cold poison seeping into my veins, conquering my whole body. A strong gust of wind blew in and through the window on the left wall open. It feels like the storm is not only raging outside but inside me too. I think this is what they call depression, don't they? Why? Why did this have to happen to me? Is pain the only thing I'll ever feel? Another thunder boomed in the sky and I clenched my eyes shut. The memories haunted me again as I closed my eyes and I couldn't help but see it all before me yet again.

Chapter 5 – Mother’s Darkness Mother sat in her favorite armchair, the soft afternoon light filtering through the lace curtains. The house was quiet, too quiet, each corner echoing memories of laughter, arguments, and whispered secrets. Yet now, the silence was heavy, pressing down on her chest. Her once vibrant energy, the pillar that had held the family together through loss and hardship, was eroding under the weight of depression.

Just end the misery in me! Just talk about it, Kabir! I didn't know how to talk and make you stay with me because we were going to end soon. I could feel something in us was breaking and shattering. "Bookworm—" "No, listen to me!" I yelled at him. "I don't know what's happening anymore. My nightmares are becoming frequent, the book I thought will make me happy is tiring me now. Nothing is making me happy anymore. I'm tired of taking those medicines as I'm a sick person. I'm going back to depression. I don't want that and then there is you!" I spat. "I don't want to be physical. Why are you not fucking see it? Why can't you see it?" Tears bubbled in my eyes and I furiously wiped it away. "I'm

It is more like a glimpse of shadow when you see the face and that's all it is. "Depression is not caused by having too much given too little time . It is caused by acknowledging too much given too little space to store". I could easily tell Mathews's story and I might even tell it well, add filter there and there, brush some scenes and polish each word. But it won't be genuine for it'll be from my point of view. It won't be his anymore. You'd be reading my story but with an additional character in it. So I believe I should hand the mic to him.

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

Though I'm confuse, I casually said, “This wondrous of a place usually empty. People forgot to pay a visit or to even got themselves immerse to the world that this wondrous of a place offer them with sincerity. I thought you are highly affected by such a failure of showing gratitude to literature coming from them?” His eyes couldn't actually intimidating but there's a melancholy that I didn't expected to seen. My statement just now goes awakwardly, and I chuckled as that to forgot my place on this unknown and strange of a place. I cough and turn my head to the shelf that offer a variety of book that looks bloody yet comforting. “Oh,” I gasped, not able to hide my awed. “That's a classic...”

C H A P T E R 2 : T H E B L U E E N V E L O P E ~ Being depressed is like falling into a black hole that you can not climb out of. Depression is a wound that never heals. A wound in the back of your mind that can’t be touched because it hurts too much. It’s always there and never goes away. Constant pain, a constant reminder. Every thought is a battle, every breath is a war, and you will lose on both fronts if you give it a chance.

The only difference between me and her is I’m not a whore. Depression is a cruel mistress and never lets up. It is just so easy to slip into it. The familiar darkness that embraces me like an old friend. I look at the blade on the floor. I sneer as I bring the bottle to my lips again. I have gone through so many emotions lately: sadness, anger, grief, spontaneous laughter, manic moments, then crash, only to do it all again. I drain the bottle and drop it to the ground, hearing it clink and clatter against its empty friends.

Neither of us mentioned it. “I didn’t realize you read poetry,” I said, sliding a thin book into place. “Occasionally,” he admitted. “Usually when I can’t sleep. There’s something… grounding about it.” “I get that,” I said, my fingers lingering on the spine of a weathered collection. “It’s like trying to make sense of feelings you can’t name.” He looked at me then, long enough that I felt my pulse shift. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Exactly like that.”