DepressionThe poison wells up. Where's it come from?
What lets it ooze past what I was told would be
A sturdy gate? My eyes may plead. The world's
The same, but my mind's mind's made up.
It's not. The sun has sunk. All good has gone,
And I sit, broken, on the sofa. I don't understand.
It seems something has poisoned me.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2018-11-26 at 00:52
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