Today
You say I am a creator, but you don’t know. Most of the things I write are things I am a slave to writing. My depression is the artist that only uses me as a husk to write out the things that it tells me to feel and to think. I am at the rope’s end holding a pen until the end and when it stops I will drop and it is all crashing down.
Today I am sad.
Today this is not really me.
Today I can’t think.
I can’t smile.
I can’t be happy for you.
I can’t pretend today.
I can’t do things without my heart dropping.
I just am broken.
2016
