Depression is like a funnel:
smooth without imperfection,
endless like a black hole.
the further you fall,
the harder it is to hold on.
the emptier you feel
the more fight is required.
you try like a cat,
digging your claws into the smooth sides,
fighting desperately to catch on anything.
the further you fall
warmth pulling towards your heart to keep you alive,
the skylight crawling away as your body crumbles,
curling into a tight ball.
you succumb to the darkness.
but,
eventually,
days,
months,
and years go by,
the deep marks split,
the sunlight streaming back in.
your heart begins pumping on its own again,
sending blood through every inch of your body,
warmth swarming your system.
your skin turns a rosy shade of red
adrenaline courses through your dry veins,
preparing for the climb.
the cracks offering hand and foot pockets
where there wasnt ledges before.
the sunlight almost welcomes you.
before you know it,
you grip the edge of the plastic,
your callused hands encouraging you
with the final pull.
you turn towards the funnel,
and realize.
it doesnt look that far
when youre at the top.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
Poetryre·al·i·ty rēˈalədē/ noun 1. the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them. 2. the state or quality of having existence or substance.
