Where do I begin?
What a classic start.
A far-cry of my life.
My spirit’s torn apart.

An acrid smell of diesel.
Improperly emissioned fumes.
Stuck in this train seat.
Memories haunt my gloom.

Where can I escape?
Reminders crawl and teem.
It’s a living nightmare…
of love’s potential gleam.

This god-dammed crap.
I fucking hate this shit.
Yet again I want just blackness.
Memories untimely rip.

Depression is, in my eyes:
preference of the solitary naught.
Because the tears dry in my sockets
with no more pleasure sought.

Seeking a lover’s embrace
has been a constant journey.
And when I found her, I was blind.
Intimacy ignorance only hurt me.

Then I faced my condition.
Too many pathways through my brain.
And although my reception’s clear.
So are methods inflicting pain.

I couldn’t sleep while lying.
And didn’t care to eat.
But I functioned exceptionally.
Always up and on the beat.

But things didn’t make sense.
Reality was a choice.
My mind was somehow somewhere.
With a very active voice.

I fell, I spiraled through chaos.
But I didn’t know I was falling.
False epiphany’s and revelation.
Denial of the doctors’ calling.

And then I was “healed.”
With a new drug in my blood.
Complicating the cocktail.
Muddled murky dirty mud.

I hate my altered self.
I hate that I feed it.
I hate the pills I take.
Knowing that I need it.

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