The following two poems are written from the perspective of someone who doesn’t understand mental illness. In no way are these my views; I just wanted to expose the harmful perceptions of depression that far too many people hold — the romanticization of mental illness, and the complete disregard for it.
she sees the world for what it is
drawn
in smiles
across her skin
in black she feels
and the red she steals
for the colors smudged against the glass
form wilting words that can’t express
the beast that lives within us all
the beast for which she bends her neck
and only she
can see
it rise
a shadow looming over the jar
claws raking
‘cross the
sloping walls
heart racing
as it
roars for more
there’s beauty in her loneliness
there’s art within her fear
she paints it
low and gentle
while inside
she wracks and rears
upon her lips there lives a moan
but her eyes house only light
I can see her turmoil turning
and to me
it seems
so right
she sees the world for what it is
and what it is
is what we are
damaged
undone by the years
subject
to the turning earth
but most do not accept it
most are blind and bare
but she
she sees her
brokenness
she sees her
despair
and to combat the encroaching vines
she makes the strongest sacrifice
weeping
red
blooming
blue
her skin is what enslaves
her to
the beast that lives within us all
the beast that she must force to fall
and break the glass that lines the walls
there’s beauty in her hopelessness
there’s art within her pain
she cannot cry
but that’s all right
for I
hear only
rain
again
she bends her neck
to vice
and I shake my head
for knowing
she walks on legs thick as trees
she talks like a hundred buzzing bees
she lives free from natural disease
yet
again
she bends her neck
to vice
you’d think at most just
once or twice
unhappiness breeds in humanity
minus, of course, the insanity
and
again
she bends her neck
to grief
claims
the bell jar is
the thief
that stole her life up on a shelf
but I know the ways of mystery
and here’s an illusion she can’t see
the only thief
is
herself
fragile flower
shadowy beast
mere words
that reach
for sympathy
that I would give
to a crippled man
a withered old woman
a dying lad
but she
she lives for sympathy
for sunlight
on her mangled weeds
and I
I won’t give sympathy
until she stands up and agrees
to build a bridge and break for land
for she can’t drown
in nothing but
sand
and to smash the glass
that she pretends
traps
torments her
to no end
there is an
end
she makes the
end
because everything else
is just
pretend
Stellular Scribe 