@daviddanieloffner: This poem was sent in by @Anthony Smith and it’s called “Hate.” This is self-destructive, overwhelmed, and brutally honest — a poem about living with depression, self-hatred, and the exhaustion of constantly trying to become someone else for other people, only to lose sight of who you are in the process. Overall, this feels like someone drowning in a cycle of depression, identity loss, and emotional burnout, where self-hatred has grown so loud that it drowns out every other voice. The speaker doesn’t just feel broken—they feel responsible for being broken, viewing themselves as a burden, a toxin, and a failure to others. Beneath all of the anger, though, is a desperate longing to be understood, helped, and freed from the constant pressure to change for everyone except themselves. #poetrytok #spokenword #hate #MentalHealth #depression

JUDr. Adam :

two weeks ago i lost my friend, all i wanna say is, guy just talk about your feelings, because if you feel like nobody cares and nobody will care at the moment, ur wrong🫶🏼

🦋🐵🕊️🐊🦉🐘🦓🪰🕷️🎭🐍 :

I like this poem it’s good I’d like to share my poems

just a girl :

why do I relate so much

🖤Myron🖤 :

difficult roads leads to beautiful destinations

sarahmarie123 :

To much alike

Lovelyyy_naww :

i just hate myself but i dont have depression

Jela :

same

Motorcycle 😌 :

Omg your on Spotify now

Leah.Day007 :

This sounds so painfully familiar

srrygang6 :

hi :

Hi

🥀 :

i hate my world 🥺

⸸𝕮⛧𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖗 🜏 :

same

kawthar 🪬 :

“hate is a strong word” ok but its still the right word.

𑣲⋆𐙚scxramouche :

can you do mine? It sits like smoke in the back of my throat— no cough to clear it, no wind to blow it away. I laugh, I nod, I move my feet, but my bones are filled with lead and gray. The colors fade to washed‑out film, music turns to static in my ears. The numbness wraps me tight, cold and still— safer than feeling all the jagged tears. I smile for the room, but my eyes go dark, a door shut heavy, locked from inside. They say “it gets better” like they know the way— they don’t live where my shadows hide. I count the marks on skin and soul, proof I’ve carried more than I should bear. It’s not just sadness, loud and sharp— it’s quiet, empty, always there. Some days I float above my own life, a stranger watching my hands move slow. The world spins fast, bright and loud, while I stand still, sinking low. I don’t ask for much—just to breathe without ache, to feel one song and let it stay pure. But depression holds me like old, heavy chains: You are mine, and I am sure. And still I drag this weight along, even when every step feels wrong, even when I feel so ugly, small, and torn— somewhere deep, a tiny light is worn: I’m still here, even when I’m forlorn.

Thecharcoalgirl :

🖤🖤🖤😭

I♥️S :

🥰🥰🥰

AnnieJosefine :

💜