Top 11 Best Sad Poems about Depression

Sad Poems about Depression

Top 11 Best Sad Poems about Depression | Sad and Lonely Poems | Sad Poems About Life That Make You Cry | Enjoy & Share with your Friends

A Sad Child - Poem by Margaret Atwood

You're sad because you're sad.

It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.

Go see a shrink or take a pill,

or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll

you need to sleep.

 

Well, all children are sad

but some get over it.

Count your blessings. Better than that,

buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.

Take up dancing to forget.

 

Forget what?

Your sadness, your shadow,

whatever it was that was done to you

the day of the lawn party

when you came inside flushed with the sun,

your mouth sulky with sugar,

in your new dress with the ribbon

and the ice-cream smear,

and said to yourself in the bathroom,

I am not the favorite child.

 

My darling, when it comes

right down to it

and the light fails and the fog rolls in

and you're trapped in your overturned body

under a blanket or burning car,

 

and the red flame is seeping out of you

and igniting the tarmac beside your head

or else the floor, or else the pillow,

none of us is;

or else we all are.

 

 

A Fairly Sad Tale - Poem by Dorothy Parker

I think that I shall never know

Why I am thus, and I am so.

Around me, other girls inspire

In men the rush and roar of fire,

The sweet transparency of glass,

The tenderness of April grass,

The durability of granite;

But me- I don't know how to plan it.

The lads I've met in Cupid's deadlock

Were- shall we say?- born out of wedlock.

They broke my heart, they stilled my song,

And said they had to run along,

Explaining, so to sop my tears,

First came their parents or careers.

But ever does experience

Deny me wisdom, calm, and sense!

Though she's a fool who seeks to capture

The twenty-first fine, careless rapture,

I must go on, till ends my rope,

Who from my birth was cursed with hope.

A heart in half is chaste, archaic;

But mine resembles a mosaic-

The thing's become ridiculous!

Why am I so? Why am I thus?

 

 

The Sad Mother - Poem by Gabriela Mistral

Sleep, sleep, my beloved,

without worry, without fear,

although my soul does not sleep,

although I do not rest.

 

Sleep, sleep, and in the night

may your whispers be softer

than a leaf of grass,

or the silken fleece of lambs.

 

May my flesh slumber in you,

my worry, my trembling.

In you, may my eyes close

and my heart sleep.

 

 

Be Not Sad - Poem by James Joyce

Be not sad because all men

Prefer a lying clamour before you:

Sweetheart, be at peace again -- -

Can they dishonour you?

 

They are sadder than all tears;

Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.

Proudly answer to their tears:

As they deny, deny.

 

 

Sad In Blue (A Lyric) - Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Sad sad sad in blue

For sad sad sad you

The moon is all bluish tonight

The night is all dark out side

Nowhere to run

Sad sad sad in blue

 

Into the night hold me tight

Love me babe I need some light

What's wrong and what's right

When shadows dwell and abide

 

Sad sad sad in blue

For sad sad sad you

The moon is all bluish tonight

Is there some star shoot in sight

To wish upon

For sad sad sad you

 

Into the night take a flight

Feelings, touch, everything out sight

Love me with feelings ok

Come come babe now closer stay

 

Sad sad sad in blue

For sad sad sad you

The moon is all bluish tonight

Is there some star shoot in sight

To wish upon

For sad sad sad you

 

 

Sad - Poem by Cristina Geanta

sad for all the time my embrace was empty of you

sad for being stubborn to be sad

sad for touching objects baring your presence

sad for not touching you...

 

sad for re adi ng your name everywhere i turn

sad for all the blue jackets other men should not have worn

sad for all my weak spots left to be weak

sad to open my eyes in the morning

 

sad for a cruel truth not even dreams can survive

sad without dreaming

sad of nothing to hope for

sad for still seing beautiful things worth for you to know

 

sad...

just what she is not

 

 

A Sad State Of Freedom - Poem by Nazim Hikmet

You waste the attention of your eyes,

the glittering labour of your hands,

and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves

of which you'll taste not a morsel;

you are free to slave for others--

you are free to make the rich richer.

 

The moment you're born

they plant around you

mills that grind lies

lies to last you a lifetime.

You keep thinking in your great freedom

a finger on your temple

free to have a free conscience.

 

Your head bent as if half-cut from the nape,

your arms long, hanging,

your saunter about in your great freedom:

you're free

with the freedom of being unemployed.

 

You love your country

as the nearest, most precious thing to you.

But one day, for example,

they may endorse it over to America,

and you, too, with your great freedom--

you have the freedom to become an air-base.

 

You may proclaim that one must live

not as a tool, a number or a link

but as a human being--

then at once they handcuff your wrists.

You are free to be arrested, imprisoned

and even hanged.

 

There's neither an iron, wooden

nor a tulle curtain

in your life;

there's no need to choose freedom:

you are free.

But this kind of freedom

is a sad affair under the stars.

 

 

To A Sad Daughter - Poem by Michael Ondaatje

All night long the hockey pictures

gaze down at you

sleeping in your tracksuit.

Belligerent goalies are your ideal.

Threats of being traded

cuts and wounds

--all this pleases you.

O my god! you say at breakfast

reading the sports page over the Alpen

as another player breaks his ankle

or assaults the coach.

 

When I thought of daughters

I wasn't expecting this

but I like this more.

I like all your faults

even your purple moods

when you retreat from everyone

to sit in bed under a quilt.

And when I say 'like'

I mean of course 'love'

but that embarrasses you.

You who feel superior to black and white movies

(coaxed for hours to see Casablanca)

though you were moved

by Creature from the Black Lagoon.

 

One day I'll come swimming

beside your ship or someone will

and if you hear the siren

listen to it. For if you close your ears

only nothing happens. You will never change.

 

I don't care if you risk

your life to angry goalies

creatures with webbed feet.

You can enter their caves and castles

their glass laboratories. Just

don't be fooled by anyone but yourself.

 

This is the first lecture I've given you.

You're 'sweet sixteen' you said.

I'd rather be your closest friend

than your father. I'm not good at advice

you know that, but ride

the ceremonies

until they grow dark.

 

Sometimes you are so busy

discovering your friends

I ache with loss

--but that is greed.

And sometimes I've gone

into my purple world

and lost you.

 

One afternoon I stepped

into your room. You were sitting

at the desk where I now write this.

Forsythia outside the window

and sun spilled over you

like a thick yellow miracle

as if another planet

was coaxing you out of the house

--all those possible worlds!--

and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.

 

I cannot look at forsythia now

without loss, or joy for you.

You step delicately

into the wild world

and your real prize will be

the frantic search.

Want everything. If you break

break going out not in.

How you live your life I don't care

but I'll sell my arms for you,

hold your secrets forever.

 

If I speak of death

which you fear now, greatly,

it is without answers.

except that each

one we know is

in our blood.

Don't recall graves.

Memory is permanent.

Remember the afternoon's

yellow suburban annunciation.

Your goalie

in his frightening mask

dreams perhaps

of gentleness.

 

 

Sit Down, Sad Soul - Poem by Barry Cornwall

SIT down, sad soul, and count

The moments flying:

Come,—tell the sweet amount

That ’s lost by sighing!

How many smiles?—a score?

Then laugh, and count no more;

For day is dying.

 

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,

And no more measure

The flight of Time, nor weep

The loss of leisure;

But here, by this lone stream,

Lie down with us, and dream

Of starry treasure.

 

We dream: do thou the same:

We love—for ever;

We laugh; yet few we shame,

The gentle, never.

Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;

Then—hope and happy skies

Are thine for ever!

 

 

In My Own Shire, If I Was Sad - Poem by Alfred Edward Housman

In my own shire, if I was sad,

Homely comforters I had:

The earth, because my heart was sore,

Sorrowed for the son she bore;

And standing hills, long to remain,

Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.

And bound for the same bourn as I,

On every road I wandered by,

Trod beside me, close and dear,

The beautiful and death-struck year:

Whether in the woodland brown

I heard the beechnut rustle down,

And saw the purple crocus pale

Flower about the autumn dale;

Or littering far the fields of May

Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,

And like a skylit water stood

The bluebells in the azured wood.

 

Yonder, lightening other loads,

The seasons range the country roads,

But here in London streets I ken

No such helpmates, only men;

And these are not in plight to bear,

If they would, another's care.

They have enough as 'tis: I see

In many an eye that measures me

The mortal sickness of a mind

Too unhappy to be kind.

Undone with misery, all they can

Is to hate their fellow man;

And till they drop they needs must still

Look at you and wish you ill.

 

 

With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb'st The Sky - Poem by William Wordsworth

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,

"How silently, and with how wan a face!"

Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high

Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!

Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh

Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!

The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,

Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I

The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:

And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,

Should sally forth, to keep thee company,

Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven.

But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,

Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

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