a sickness
an illness
depression is an addiction
lived through, torn through
abides only in and of itself
a pain
a sorrow
depression tears in and contorts
rearranges the abstract
and consumes
like a lover
with your best interests in mind
swooning the grave and a step away
at every moment of the day
until it lifts and leaves
and the feeling remains
like junk
a gentle kiss on the lips
as it returns
and burns back into
that failing state of mind
in time to the rhythm of your heart
from the very start
a need
as you bleed
the condition
that you feed
with the dark spaces
when you close your eyes
and everyone dies
a little when you are near
and you hear
the trumpets blaring fear
for another day
in no other way
than the life you lead
and how you bleed
from the deeper wounds
cut by the threads of existence
so you lift and rise
with the tides
of pain and regret
reeling from the thought
of another day this way
to lead you astray
and you hope you are brave
enough
to remain tough enough
to live a little bit more
but you're sore
from beating yourself up about it
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