An Old Poem Of Mine

I was organizing my files, and I came across a poem I seem to have written around the end of August 2014. At that time, I was suffering from a fair bit of depression (as even though I haven’t been formally diagnosed, I’m sure I’m Bipolar-II), and if I remember correctly, was feeling extremely down and depressed, and people on EP started to worry about me. So I had put my feelings into a poem. The poem basically states that as horrible as the times have been for me, not simply when I had written it but also long before and even now, I know that I’m going somewhere. Perhaps I screwed up my grades in high school, but I know that once I go to college (be it Caltech, Berkeley, UF, Georgia Tech, or even UCF, and maybe after next year at MIT), my true self can shine, and I will achieve greatness.

Because I have given and am giving so few shits about all the shit that has been flung at me from peers, bullies, and trolls, that I’m actually taking shits. Sigmund Freud was a genius, and even though he might have been a complete nutcase, part of why we don’t brush him off completely is because we don’t have any evidence to prove that he’s wrong, and he has given many significant contributions to psychology. Why do I bring him up? Because he knew as a child he was destined for greatness. He knew he was going to do something amazing. I, in the same way however not with the unscientific aspect of Freud know that I will do something great, and my peers, the bullies, and trolls can go unionize a completely non-differentiable object with their largest toroidal hole.


Without further adieu, here’s the poem. It’s in iambic meter, parts of it similar to Annabel Lee in meter (read like such to read read this smoothly):

It’s time for me to leave and go to bed,
though I am filled with thoughts of endless dread.
What can I do?
Why should it be?
Oh why hath depression struck me?
It’s simply not fair!
It’s utter despair!
That I of all people should
feel the oppression that
tears me apart by the
hands of depression,
but if it’s any concession,
I refuse to give up,
because I know that this is not me.

At once the math girl becomes a poet,
for her equations cannot express the
apprehension and tension that
leaves her a state of unrest.
Alas, her heart still belongs to her love,
without it she’s driven to wrath.
Through all the
depression, oppression, and tension,
her guidelight will always be math.

Holding tight to this guidelight,
perhaps it will lead me the way.
Right out of this mess
that is causing this stress,
and put an end to this dismay.

They say that true love will
show you the path,
and for me I can say that
my true love is math,
undoing this mess
I did, I confess,
to bring me back on
the path to success.

An Old Poem Of Mine

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