- Books, Literature, and Writing
The Oppression of Depression
Stymied in loathing and pity toward the one who holds this pen,
Not being my own best friend.
Anger consumes like a ravenous fire. At who can I aim this rage?
I am dead inside and feel nothing but the pain.
Will this ever end?
How long can I lay here motionless hoping not to feel?
Take away this heart. It is of no use to me.
I feel unworthy to walk with the living but
Am too exhausted to care about the business of life.
There is no way to climb out of this, the darkest of the darkest places I have ever been.
Life is squalor. I lay on the bottom wounded and fragile.
In the depths of my despair, there is no joy.
Tears replace laughter and drown the bed.
SIghs replace smiles and consume all my energy.
The phone is ringing but I do not care who is on the other end.
Making me move is an impossibility.
It is a struggle to pull the covers back over my head as
I cannot loose the grips of this all consuming depression to bother getting out of this bed.
My body aches with phantom pain from the despair.
Another aspirin, just for routine, hoping this time it will bring relief.