Broken brackish and brooding,
I look for some new thing.
The hours offer me nothing,
except the bad old habits,
to which I desperately cling.
I pick and prod and poke myself,
and play with my broken wings.
I paint myself into a black corner,
like a stark little Jack Horner.
I pin my wing’s against the wall,
and hang there, unable to fall.
My blood runs black with bitterness,
it swim’s into my soul,
the birthing of the darkness,
like a brilliant black foal.
The foal break’s quickly through the gate’s,
it evade’s my inner hold.
It buck’s and breah’s and whinnie’s wild,
as I revert to my inner child.
My tongue become’s a runestone,
an epithet, in a dead language,
mocking everything that I’ve known.
My eye’s are silver orb’s now,
like trophie’s for this horse.
Fixed in frozen sight,
of a precious metal nightmare,
possessed of dreamy light.
I wrote this as an expression of the helplessness that come’s with depression in it’s darkest form.
Eventualy it just passes through you, if you let it, but while it’s visiting it tend’s go straight to the darkest little corner’s of your mind and pull’s out all the blackest, bitterest thought’s like a black dog digging up old bone’s, and he just sit’s there gnawing on them until he’s quite satisfied that your miserable and then he leave’s you to bury them again.
If only it was as easy to get rid of as calling the local dog pound!
Sometime’s it just run’s amuck and bring’s you down with raw emotion like the horse.