The combative nature of depression. Stay strong, don’t give it power over you.
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.