Anxiety. Depression.
Two words that had
Moved in the back of my head.
They had packed their luggage for a lifetime stay.
They were ghosts in my bed,
Helping me remember.
Reminding me.
They tested my sanity.
I was better off dead,
Because
The depression trapped me
In an infinite time loop, I would never
Get out of.
Memories of what could've been
And flashes what to come
Held me hostage in
My logical anxiety prison.
"Therapy," they said. "Helps the
lost souls who can't travel home."
But I wasn't an item in lost and found
For someone to pick up and reuse
As their item.
Therapy was one giant leap of faith,
Just to make two giant steps back.
One, two
One, two
One, two
Over and
Over and
Over.
I was a living paradox.
YOU ARE READING
spilled ink✔
SpiritualA bind-up of 13 teenagery poems by WingWriter. "The stars completed the night. Without them, it was a dull blue with nothing to embellish them.♡" #796 in Spiritual (7.13.17) #759 in Spiritual (7.19.17) #640 in Spiritual (7.21.17) #449 in Spiritual (...
