A Poet's Scribe

I romanticised you. That was my mistake.

It is sickness. A description isn't needed, for we all are acquainted with the symptoms of being lonely.

A single reverberating thought serves as a personal reminder. The tidal wave of reality harshly breaks me from my dissociation. I find myself drifting there a lot these days, to my place of absolute nothing. The unknown of it all is a welcoming comfort, providing a separation from the living which is filled with a different type of uncertainty.

The answers for questions that will never be found, how they come to consume and fester. The termites feverously feasting away. A record played over and over, the sound distinct grows scratchy to variations of chaos. Wailing screams fill a claustrophobic room, the choir demonic in nature, never ceases. anxiety.

Depression. Is almost like a living life force, breathing and surviving through its host. A 'parasite' which leeches its way inside someone through layers of skin, muscle and even dense bone. It makes it's way to the very core, devouring their soul and spirit. Diminishing the light that once luminated the darkness within. The process is torturously sluggish, until there is no longer a glow. The Parasite makes a home here, where it eats erasing the good like a tasty snack. The host becomes a puppet, a empty shell hostage to the corruption we all call Depression.

Death is a gentlemen. I knew him once. He was a gentle soul and possessed a calming presence. But, that was in the past. Now, when we pass in the streets, I smile. He never notices because he's a busy man and I no longer require his attention.

Dear Me, It's been a difficult journey. You have fought with everything, only to fall, but you get up and try yet again. A person who has proved to yourself time and time again you are worthy. Remember you are stronger than give yourself credit for, I am writing this to be a constant reminder.

Living in a picturesque social media platform, where comparison is a killer. Scrolling to my doom.

A bright star will explode, it's a fact. Taking everything within its proximity into the unknown formidable darkness. A black hole. But, unbeknownst to the star, turmoil and grief follows for everything closest to it. Hope disappears, not a remnant of its essence to be found. Except, the single memory of how brightly the star had once burnt.

The unnecessary fretting whirlwind of thoughts before bed; how seamlessly they leave wreaking havoc in their wake as they leave my mind, on for the next to consume.