This Poem was Submitted By: Mark D. Kilburn On Date: 2003-08-28 14:00:23 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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THE DEVIL'S DUE

The darkest hopelessness born of self-doubt spawned from distrust and self-pity. When hopelessness grows on regretful hearts depression is born denying all gratitude it grows  with a dishonest voice like  spilled black ink spreading, darkness obliterating all hope. Death is depressionís song,  pain its melody, abetted by apathy  its path is aided by surrender and  weakness spreading exponentially its seeds germinate in terms of acceptance, (the blues, the blahs, the downs or just a rough damn time). Strengthís depressionís enemy so depression saps strength certainly,  as well as first and foremost enabling us to succumb to the black inky spread. Proudly wearing victimís names like badges for the brave, names and faces that dwell and haunt our conscious and  subconscious, for sadly all were suicides. Depression operates with a  universal absence of good; deceit and lies its only form of communication or voice, its strength grows equal to its spread its darkness abysmal its brink bottomless. An icy skeletal hand chokes the spiritís motivation setting in motion  the cycle of despair. Depression exhibits enduring patience never resting, stopping or sleeping especially when good fortune rules. Always close and waiting for an open door of thought, an unfair fight and foe for those who suffer and struggle for survival or search for mere smiles. A storm of boundary less and borderless hate non-directional, blowing through  reality magnetically pulled towards those who have hard lives and troubled times. Enigmatic for the nothing is omnipotent, enigmatic when that same nothing kills and seduces the suffering innocent.   The sun will rise tomorrow silhouetting an empty parking garage, six stories tall with a sidewalk still stained, like red ink spreading.

Copyright © August 2003 Mark D. Kilburn


This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2003-09-07 15:17:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.22222
As a Registered Psychiatric Nurse I can understand this poem to its fullest. Depression can look like a black hole to those in it, and they (the depressed) need a lot of helpf which included both counselling and medications. 85% of depression can be overcome with the help of drugs and counselling and electro-convulsive therapy (ECT) which can open up the neuro-transmitters when chemicals won't. A lot of depression is caused by lack of endorphins or brain chemicals which medication can alleviate. My hope is that depression does not lead to suicide as you so mention. This is a dark poem. I would have liked to see some hope attached to it. Thanks for posting.


This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2003-09-05 20:03:26
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.16471
Mark I have written you twice now and even sent a copy of one sent last month....hope you are well, you are in myprayers.....at thi point in time my mind is empty of thoughts but I did want you to know I read your poem, found it to be worthy of praise...and I see you are doing well on the list of winners this month...depression is a horrible thing to face, live with and try to remove from ones life......you take care now, a one for this would be good for me......if you want to write please do so......looking forward to hearing from you...be safe my friend, God Bless, Claire
This Poem was Critiqued By: Brandon Gene Petit On Date: 2003-09-03 16:48:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.35294
Tough, brutal and honest. Hey, someone had to go there. Good job at delivering a harsh, cynical message. A reality check. - Brandon
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2003-09-02 14:09:04
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.81250
Dear Mark: I've read this poem many times over. I think you tell it 'straight' -- for the debilitating effects of depression can not be overstated. I very much appreciate the metaphor of black and red ink spreading. The black ink symbolized the darkness of depression which seems like a tunnel with no way out - and of course the 'red' ink is the way out that some choose. As you know, my son chose this way. I read your poem with a great deal of emotion, but yet, was able to see some light in the deep, dark tunnel. The light is this: You wrote the poem. You did not commit the act. The poem may serve to enlighten some about the seriousness of depression, as well. This poem needed to be written! The darkest hopelessness born of self-doubt spawned from distrust and self-pity. When hopelessness grows on regretful hearts depression is born denying all gratitude it grows with a dishonest voice like spilled black ink spreading, darkness obliterating all hope. -- very effective simile! Death is depressionís song, pain its melody, abetted by apathy its path is aided by surrender and weakness spreading exponentially its seeds germinate in terms of acceptance, (the blues, the blahs, the downs or just a rough damn time). Your use of the heavy plosive 'd' sound throughout the piece adds to the sense of intense despair - very deftly. Words like "death/darkness/self-doubt/dwell/downs/damndeceit/door" illustrate the relentless quality of depression's encroachment and overtaking of the personality. Profound! Strengthís depressionís enemy so depression saps strength certainly, --and fine use of sibilance throughout as well as first and foremost enabling us to succumb to the black inky spread. Proudly wearing victimís names like badges for the brave, names and faces that dwell and haunt our conscious and subconscious, for sadly all were suicides. --an unforgettable awareness sinks in here Depression operates with a universal absence of good; deceit and lies its only form of communication or voice, its strength grows equal to its spread its darkness abysmal its brink bottomless. An icy skeletal hand chokes the spiritís motivation setting in motion the cycle of despair. "icy skeletal hand" gives us a vivid, evocative and emotionally accurate picture of the hold of depression, Mark. Depression exhibits enduring patience never resting, stopping or sleeping especially when good fortune rules. Always close and waiting for an open door of thought, an unfair fight and foe for those who suffer and struggle for survival or search for mere smiles. A storm of boundary less and borderless hate non-directional, blowing through reality magnetically pulled towards those who have hard lives and troubled times. --you make this reader aware of the *unfairness* of it here! Enigmatic for the nothing is omnipotent, --might put "the nothing" in quotes enigmatic when that same nothing kills and seduces the suffering innocent. --so sadly, sadly true The sun will rise tomorrow silhouetting an empty parking garage, six stories tall with a sidewalk still stained, like red ink spreading. This compelling poem hits with the impact of concrete on living flesh. For those who do not understand this state of being, your poem will awaken a new perception. For those who are acquainted with this potentially deadly threat, the words will resonate truly. For some who have escaped from the 'magnetic pull' of depression, this poem may bring a sense of relief. It is difficult to revel in my own freedom from depression when those I love, family and friends, have succumbed - sometimes at the cost of death. As always, Mark, your poetry has the power to elicit powerful emotion. Bravo! All my best, Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2003-08-30 09:48:47
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.78571
I like the title with its hint of "giving the Devil his due" which this poem addresses in spades - The darkest hopelessness born of self-doubt spawned from distrust and self-pity. since born and spawned mean pretty much the same thing and spawned is more powerful - how about condensing a little to something like the darkest hopelessness spawned from self-doubt and self-pity this would give parallelism to the "self" - construct and the distrust is be evident later in the poem - just a suggestion for the flow- or if you don't like that suggestion, perhaps reverse born and spawned - so that "born" - in the next stanza is in chronological order? When hopelessness grows [in?] regretful hearts depression is born denying all gratitude it grows with a dishonest voice like spilled black ink spreading, [good simile] darkness obliterating all hope. Death is depressionís song, [fantastic expression] pain its melody, abetted by apathy its path is aided by surrender and weakness spreading exponentially its seeds germinate in terms of acceptance, (the blues, the blahs, the downs or just a rough damn time). (really fine dramatic section - finds its own rhythm] Strength [is] depressionís enemy [to make it stand out even more as an expression] so depression saps strength certainly, as well as first and foremost enabling us to succumb to the black inky spread. Proudly wearing victimís names like badges for the brave, names and faces that dwell and haunt our conscious and subconscious, for sadly all were suicides. [the death of hope - very dramatic and well stated] Depression operates with a universal absence of good;[ah...yes!] deceit and lies its only [voice], its strength grows equal to its spread its darkness abysmal its brink bottomless. An icy skeletal hand chokes the spiritís motivation setting in motion the cycle of despair. [very vivid and chilling description] Depression exhibits enduring patience [interesting! - this turns on a bibical phrase] never resting, stopping or sleeping especially when good fortune rules. Always close and waiting for an open door of thought, an unfair fight and foe for those who suffer and struggle for survival or search for mere smiles. [excellent! both winsome and sad ] A storm of boundary less and borderless [great!} hate non-directional, blowing through reality magnetically pulled towards those who have hard lives and troubled times. Enigmatic for the nothing is omnipotent, enigmatic when that same nothing kills and seduces the suffering innocent. [alas, too often true] The sun will rise tomorrow silhouetting an empty parking garage, six stories tall with a sidewalk still stained, like red ink spreading. ominous and chilling ending to a powerful and dramatic poem
This Poem was Critiqued By: Galen never received one at bir Arrowhead On Date: 2003-08-30 08:03:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.50000
Hi Mark, For the most part, you seem to understand depression. In terms of theme, I think you're a little too harsh on depressed people. Granted they have some of the qualities you mention, yet you do imply they have control over these feeling. As I understand it some do, but too many don't because it can be caused from physical things, like diabetis, the flu, or cancer. Unfortunately, too many of them don't seek a doctor's advice and end up as you've stated in a sea of blood. Your poem is good because it brings up issues that relate to life and people. At times, in the poem it seems you have sympathy, but others times, not. With any negative human trait, judgement doesn't help them to overcome it. But gentleness and understanding that we all carry Original sin. It just shows itself in different ways to different people. Anyway, poem does generate discussion, and I see a firm decision on what depressed people are like. Thanks for sharing. Good Luck and keep 'em coming. Galen
This Poem was Critiqued By: Sandra J Kelley On Date: 2003-08-29 10:39:29
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.55556
Mark, The last four lines of your poem are fantastic. They are concrete, specific and show rather than tell. In the second line is born would make this a complete sentence rather than a fragment and make it easier to read. Black inky spread is another good line. I work in a mental health field and have heard many people discribe their depression but none so poetically. I like how you discribe this in almost mythical terms as if a fight of good versus evil the all encompasing struggle for hope. Good luck and keep writting.
This Poem was Critiqued By: C Arrownut On Date: 2003-08-28 23:08:28
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 7.37500
Mark, I'm not sure what to say about this poem and I'm not sure I totally understand it. First, The only experience I can bring to it is the feelings of blues or just a blah day which doesn't really leave me excited about anything and I don't seem to know what to bitch about during these times. Just having these things, it's hard to imagine getting deeper. I've heard that the phrase "being down to the barrel of the bottle doesn't say much, because everyone's barrell is not the same size. Some descend much lower and some all the way to suicide or an attempt. But I liked the words and the power in them that did give me a brief shot inside. The extreme emotions are hard to convey without sounding ridiculous, but I think you have given me a very brief glance into the deepest deep, which I may not ever forget. Thanks for sharing.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas H. Smihula On Date: 2003-08-28 21:04:10
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.98000
The beginning rings of unhappiness with little hope of pulling one out of its clutches. You follow it up with depression of the soul and how it festers and it moves like the plague itself. You again state so well the effect of total depression as you bring this reader into death itself. With the depth you have shown to this point and the words used I have difficulty with the last two lines in the first stanza that are in parenthesis; these seem to not have the strength you have conveyed earlier at least to this reader. Your second stanza again brings me the power of your words, reaching, grasping the breath from the person itself, giving me little doubt about what is in store for the recipient of the depression. Excellent use of adjectives within this stanza my favorite is when you discuss the icy skeletal hand. The third stanza give me the picture of despair with all the verbs, adverbs, and especially adjectives culminating a well written stanza showing the power and the influence despair has on one. Suicide so well explained in this poem. Bravo this is poetry that has to be recon with. My only suggestion was in the first stanza where the ending seemed a little weak for this should never give one that feeling for the power you have in the words should never be diminished. Thank you, this was just great. Tom
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