Depression

Wed, 10/07/2015 - 23:15 -- ss14959

By candlelight I spent my hours,

Writing my memoirs, sweet and sour.

I felt my wilting will go slack,

As a cold hand rested on my back.

It was my Master, tall and dark.

Who gave out orders with a bark.

He didn’t care much for my writing,

And I felt the same about his biting.

Not by teeth, oh no, by his words,

My Master bites me til I hurt.

By candlelight my creative mind flows,

But Master snubs it with harsh bellows.

My candle flickers, my will retreats.

I break, as a slave fall to my knees.

The candle goes dark.

 
This poem is about: 
Me

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