depression is a war and catastrophe.

you fight yourself,

and even if you win you kill

something of your essence, your soul,

but there is no help because

this world is predatory and only

the fittest survive.

nothing about it is beautiful or romantic,

not when this hell was personally tailored for you,

when you're pompeii with the ash of vesuvius smothering

you, alive and screaming silence because the world does not understand, it

never will and it's too late because your trojan horse has come and

you will fall into a pit so deep,

a black hole in the space of your life.

the cricket's pretty chirping is silenced in the jar

and slowly it disintegrates into dust.

you are not whole anymore when your soul has died,

but an automaton, rusting away.