Depression

Depression is the discomfort of a thousand pound comforter,

soft blankets, weighted down;

My bed's a prison filled with muted T.V. sounds

occupying the background of my room & my mind,

doing little to muffle the deriding 

voice of my false self, unkind, saying

"It's O.K.

"You were never good enough anyway."

Depression is running for hours & hours,

and as the rest of the world awakes,

fighting fatigue, wet cheeks, & shakes,

too exhausted to rest, no cares to shower,

summon what little willpower is left,

drone into work & occupy a desk.

Depression is apathy,

uncaring,

sea-faring ships wistfully unmoved

in stagnate coves under uncovered skies

as the sun, hot & relentless,

burns the insides of my chest

and slowly dulls my eyes.

Depression is endless hours

of feeling profoundly uninspired

doing absolutely nothing

but growing increasingly tired.

Dissonance, Dysphoria,

Secretly resenting Gloria,

relief only in the war abroad.

And I am Anthony Patch:

Unmotivated writer,

Alcoholic aristocrat,

Ungrateful heir

and severely detached.

Depression is entropy

as daylight grows shorter,

Energy lost,

gradual decline into disorder.