Thomas Castle

The Warden (TW: Depression)

Seated before you, I smile and nod,

but my mind is shattered with despair’s iron rod.

Chased by the devil, judged by a god,

Suspecting my demise, a race against the clock.

I want to scream but only broken sound,

My voice is imprisoned, in shackles tightly bound.

Yet there’s a dream, some hope still around,

My warden a visitor and freedom is found.

The shackles will fall, and I will be free,

Beginning to create, will be the key.

You too can escape, but you must agree,

To open the gate and escape with me.

Some kind of peace (TW: selfharm)

On my darkest days, the only light,

is reflected from a razor blade.

Silent suffering in the night,

the promise of pain, my only aid.

In the pain, there is release,

letting go of human fears.

There lies some kind of peace,

a way to end my silent tears.

On my darkest days, I’m sated

from the poison that I drink.

All my doubt has been sedated;

Nothing to feel and nothing to think.

In the pain, there is release,

to end the voices in my head.

There lies some kind of peace,

to entangle my mind’s thread.

On my darkest days, I numb my mind,

consume the stories of my time.

Search for all the stories I can find,

to distract myself, I pay the fine.

In the pain, there is release,

distract myself from reality.

There lies some kind of peace;

In stories, I find my serenity.

Sometimes I run towards the pain,

because it’s louder than the voice.

Smother the feelings, my only gain,

to pay the price, my only choice.

I’m looking for a better way,

To reason with the voice.

Peace of mind, a price to pay;

I do it all to calm the noise.

Puzzle pieces

I’m patchwork,

my healing is patchwork,

my personality is patchwork.

Piece by piece I build my jigsaw puzzle.

Piece by piece I craft my patch.

A picture emerges with every piece,

a picture of myself.

Over the years, so many pieces did not fit.

I turned them,

cut them,

changed them.

But the pieces didn’t work,

the patch didn’t fit.

I tried so many pieces, but didn’t know the picture,

I didn’t even know, I’m just a jigsaw puzzle,

collecting pieces along the way.

Only when I started building at the corners,

piece by piece working my way to the inside,

I finally saw a picture.

A picture of myself,

composed of pieces,

I found along the way.

And even when some pieces are still missing,

every day I work on my jigsaw puzzle.

Compare my hell ( TW: Depression)

Sometimes I compare myself to the people around,

to find something true and profound.

Why do I often feel depressed?

Why do I feel damaged and mismatched?

Why do I feel obscene and obsessed?

Why do I feel bound and oppressed?

Why can’t I get satisfaction?

Why can’t I find direction?

Why can’t I make connections?

Why is there so much pain

in the world and in me?

So much hate and disdain,

and filth to see.

But when I compare myself to others,

My pain doesn’t feel strong enough,

My scars don’t feel deep enough,

My hell doesn’t feel hot enough.

Because hell,

Hell,

Hell is other people.

Their hell burns brighter,

They have to be fighters

against hate and disdain,

against trauma and pain,

and I don’t feel like I deserve to complain.

Because I’m male and I’m white,

I’m talented and bright,

I can run, I can walk,

I can learn, I can talk,

I can choose, I’m free

to express myself and be me.

I have two healthy eyes,

enough money to get by,

I’m privileged and blessed.

Still, I feel depressed,

I feel angry and detached.

For myself, I feel disdain,

I feel fear, I feel shame.

Sometimes I don’t think I’m sane.

Still, I think I don’t deserve to complain

when I compare my hell to other people,

to the powerless, poor, and the feeble.

Because hell,

Hell,

Hell is other people.

My personal hell is the shame,

my fear, and my disdain.

I’ve been carrying it since I was a child,

all the doubt that I have compiled.

One broken arm, lost all my teeth,

mended it with metal to get some relief.

I have one dead friend, gone before his time.

He was taken right in his prime.

This is, in part, my sorrow,

not enough to dread my tomorrow.

Especially when I compare it to others

Who lost all hope, themselves, their kin, and their lovers,

Who live their personal hell every day,

People who never found their way.

Because hell,

Hell,

Hell is other people.

Kaliope told me,

comparing our suffering only compounds it.

And I decided to crawl out of my pit

and stop comparing myself to others,

Don’t measure myself against sisters and brothers,

don’t contemplate the judgment of fathers and mothers.

I follow Kaliope’s advice,

stop comparing,

stop complaining,

leaving my hell and rolling the dice

on my life, I accept the price,

accepting my scars,

accepting my pain,

reaching for the stars,

breaking the chain.

I find my purpose in creation,

Accepting myself is my salvation

Poetry