Forgotten Forest Poetry

Crumble.

Writing a symphony of sorrows,

A gentle melody written,

Of broken memories, glass hanging from it's last piece,

And a library, swarmed in dust,

Hidden between hallways,

An endless corridor, with nothing on the other end,

No light at the end of the empty tunnel.

A symphony of sorrows,

A song that lives between my ribcage,

In a hollowed space.

She writes there,

Alone,

With the walls tightening,

Feeling like she's breathing

And suffocating all at once.

A lonely space,

With no description.

No matter how much poetry I write,

No matter how many ways I personify,

Or how many analogies,

Or similes,

Or metaphors I build around her,

Her name is still depression.

Her name is still anxiety.

Her name is still... the same.

No matter how much I try to change her,

Her name is the same.

She holds me hostage in her loneliness,

In this cage I feel the need to break out of,

To watch her control this heart, this body, this palace

That's supposedly built on memories,

Good memories,

And watch it

Crumble.