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I  sit in the corner and I feel so alone.
If I leave this place right now, would anyone even know?
These attempts are weak, this charity feels so petty.
Thanks for the invite, but this generosity feels forced.

When I used to feel happy, I’d smile.
When I used to get sad, I’d cry.
Now I just get angry…
I get so fucking angry.

These people around me, with a sense of self they move.
These people around me, making the most of their days.
The smiles they wear, why do they get to be so happy?
Their purpose driven lives, I’ve never been so envious.

When I used to feel happy, I’d smile.
When I used to get sad, I’d cry.
Now I just get angry…
I get so fucking angry.

My friends have stopped trying and I could not care less.
My old interests have faded and I do nothing to bring them back.
Left is nothing that allows for pride, pleasure, or promise.
Left is nothing except for this anger that consumes me.
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This is one of the truest forms of male depression. When a crippling depression hits a man, all other emotions take a back seat to anger. I’m sure it could be a form for women as too, of course.

Written in 2008

Copyright, The Poetry of Bryan Buser

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The Sleeping Monster