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.