Sickness

I’m sick inside.

Not a cough or a wheeze.

I can’t seem to understand it.

Pestering and diseased.

Some days are bright.

And others bear gloom.

The nights are stricken and I don’t leave the room.

I want to be cleansed.

To find some peace.

But this can’t be fought or even appeased.

It comes in whirlpools, waves, and even riptides.

While I fought the tide.

Constant disarray in the brain.

Virulent inside and bringing me pain.

Depression is a state.

People like us who can’t decide.

Like a dark room.

With shadows under the door.

Begging, wanting, promising more.

Always offering more.

The itch I swear I had to scratch.

The darkness digging into the cracks.

I wish it away.

Waking up I feel the ease.

Then I stare out, and find peace.

Something I would kill to please.

I fight it on gloomy days.

That’s when it hits most.

I don’t take pills.

You’ll never get them down my throat.

You can’t numb me down.

I won’t become a ghost.

I won’t hit the ground.

You can’t make me a host.

But I’ll try my hand and stay my foot.

Till I don’t have anything left that can’t be took.