The “Un” is trying to get me.
The un-motivated,
the un-happy,
the un-resolved,
the un of it all.
Fat fingers of depression,
trying to curl their
way around my neck,
to choke me with devious glee,
un-satisfied with the present.
The face of depression,
hidden in unlit corridors;
unfazed by the unrelenting
lengthening of Sunny days,
and potentials to come.
Unforgivable in its haunting
of my always tired mind,
unashamed of the torment
its cracking knuckles cause,
as they echo through my head.
Undaunted, I fight against
this creeping and unwelcome
pall of sadness, ever present
enemy, of the most unpopular
kind.
I’m steeled,
but rusty,
unsatisfied with my defenses,
unabashedly awkward in my
sword-play.
The “Un”.
The unrepentant depression,
swirling around my head,
like Emily Dickinson’s fly,
in her ear as she died.
Uncalled for violence,
unpolished blade,
dulled, unsharpened,
in the shaking hands
of depression.
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