Poems of Doubtful Hope

The things I used to love, or even used to like-- None of it feels right anymore.  I feel too anxious to sit down and read, I feel guilty taking time to sit down and write. I lose myself in a video game and feel ashamed-- None of it feels right anymore.  I try to pray or worship God, But my devotions feel like hypocrisy. I go for a walk or ride the exercise bike, And my dopamine receptors blink and shrug-- None of it feels right anymore.  I take my medication or I don't, I try to eat healthy or I don't,  I do my work and it feels empty-- None of it feels right anymore.  Even writing this poem feels like a repetitious lie. I want to scream, I want to yell,  I want to get angry, I want to break something,  I want to feel some feeling beyond a blase Numbness that feels like emoting through gelatin-- None of it feels right anymore.  And as I ponder, weak and weary,  On a Tuesday morning too indifferent to be dreary,  I don't even have a torm...

 You told us about a man who's coming was foretold--born to be Emmanuel, God with us. A Prince not of power but of Peace, one anointed by God to sit on the throne of David forever, where he would lead the people with justice, reconciling the world back to The Father--and we believed you.  You told us about the way he was born--heralded by a priest, a virgin, and an outcast, who told us he would fill the poor and send the rich away hungry, that he would bring light to those sitting in darkness, that the way would be prepared by bringing low the high and lifting up the low so all people would stand as equals before their savior--and we believed you. You told us about the way he lived--proclaiming good news to the poor, recovery for the blind and broken, comfort for the mourners, food for the hungry, life to the fullest degree; a good shepherd, the Word who was with God from the beginning, the one who holds the words of life--and we believed you. You told us how he taught us to l...

Anxiety and Depression won't come at me like a "real disease." Sometimes I wish they would.  If they started shutting down organs or yellowing my skin, Making me look sickly and pale, sallow and sunken, I might find more support in my life.  I would bear on my body the signs of the anguish I feel.  I would garner sympathy instead of hiding behind a smile that's not real.  You could look at me and know something is wrong, And I wouldn't be able to hide how hard it is to cope. If Anxiety and Depression came at me like a "real disease," Quotes around the phrase "real disease" wouldn't be necessary.  Instead, mental illness grows like a tumor inside you,  Sucking the life out of you, draining your will to live, Leaving you unsure of what being "well" even feels like anymore. Your fight or flight response is always triggered; The hope that lives inside your body has abandoned you Like Dante entering the gates of Hell.  Hell is what it ...