Dark poetry

It is this constant state of percieving the dull within everything everything vivid, when your heavy limbs require twice as much effort to perform the subtle movements they once performed with spontaneous ease. When exhaustion seems to be permanent; your eyelids are heavy, your breath is dense and calculated. Your helpless being is merely able to remain static and maintain your sight focused on one specific, meaningless spot, as you let the seconds, minutes and hours slip by your fingertips, yet your mind does not want to grant you any rest. I do not like to call it depression, as it is commonly named. I am not sad, nor melancholic; I do not have any reason behind the way my body behaves. I do not want to harm myself nor do I feel that I have been harmed by anybody. I can solely enjoy the steep silence surrounding me and my null thoughts and my dead ideas, hoping to someday feel like the person I once used to be.