The depression is an oppression
A reason for obsession
It gnaws your mind
For the end of time
It kills you dead
As if you had been struck in the head
A sickness, a disease
My words you shall heed
Unwanted, it crouches low
Constantly attacking, with every low blow
It creates a distraction
The reason for retraction
And stays hidden, guarded
Safe once more
Until the slight hint of happiness
Then brings it to the fore
YOU ARE READING
Ink
PoetryInk. Words. Writing. The very thing that binds us together. That makes us all equal. That both silences us, and gives us a voice. The item that saves lives, and takes others. It is where all stories, poems, sonnets and long gone tales once start...
