Depression: Not Just a Loss Of Bliss....

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It is a boulder,

Intrinsically pieced on me, by me.

They thought it's a stone

That I could kick ahead to,

A nothingness I cried waste to.

It was, but, a singularity,

Forcing me to a void abyss.

Not mere unhappiness,

Not just a loss of bliss.

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It was guilt, of I know not what.

It was anxiety, and I was left to rot.

It was isolation, from myself.

It was my despise to self.

It was pure despair.

It wasn't fair.

It was……

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Maybe I need repair...

The Night Is Dark...

Nights are beautiful,
They are dark,
Just like life, a stinging mark.
A bleeding spark, a completed arc, to disembark.

They're painful, but the pain bundled,
with a tingling pleasure, a humour,
That the day hides with its light.
Only to be reversed by a carbon night.

The night is a mystery,
Asks which is needed to be,
A question forever unanswered,
One among the countless each moon.

It is lonely, silent,
Yet an unbearable pitch,
Comes from inside, who knows?
Perceive the shrieks of infernos.

It is cold, chilling,
Blanketed shivers down the spine
It's not the weather,
But flashes of the time together.

The night, the night it is,
A dark beauty, a paining glee,
A silent scream, an iced mystery.

One night, the night shall never cease,
That night'll be the night
Of my peaceful decease.

- By Aditi Shahdadpuri and Shourya Shrivastava