Sigh! It comes like a train — an express line through my thoughts, no stops, no warnings. Oh how DEPRESSION clips at my heels, familiar as shadow, unwelcome as memory. Defeated — like sunlight pressed to branches too burdened to bloom. My heart hangs in moss — heavy, strangled in the green silence of old grief.
Tears lean like leafless trees, bowed in all directions, yet rooted in a place with no direction — a forest dying quietly, where even the familiar trails feel like ghost roads I no longer recognize.
I feel short of worth — like coins counted in silence, never enough to buy the currency of being loved. I glow in daylight, but dusk takes its due — and now I dim with every breath.
I try to speak, but end up forcing books down my throat, pages crammed with words I never learned to say. But you’ll never see me cry in public — I’m an island left off every map, burying bottle messages even I won’t recover.
I have so much hopeful words for others, but I’m a stack of unread stories to myself; a pen that dries before I can name the ache.
And somewhere inside —I find a red box with hidden compartments, each one meant to hold something sacred. But they echo when I open them — soft, hollow reminders that even my soul has forgotten how to fill its space.