Signs Of Depression

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Twisted knives and rusty scissors

Akin to pins in a cushion.

A heart full of stab wounds,

Old stitches become undone.

Confined to a porcelain ribcage

Held together by sellotape.

 

Veins devoid of stardust,

Extinct like childhood wonder,

Died the same way wishes do.

Shut inside the headspace,

Hunted daily by wraiths and imps,

Discordia behind marionette ropes.

 

Spent sleepless nights wafting through

Pale shadows in mind’s corners.

Wander aimless around broken dreamscapes

And the graveyards of short-lived hopes.

Wake from a coma the morning after,

Blurry eyes wet with tears.

 

Make attempts to normalize:

Trap sadness under a cup,

Bottle up rage,

Toss envy into a pit,

Weed out guilt,

Empty out the hollow void.

 

Hide it all not by the mask of tragedy

But with a smiley face.

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Elaine Mullarkey

About the Author: Elaine Mullarkey

A wordsmith and bibliophile who also goes by the penname of Molly Lane. You can also check out my other written material on my Tumblr page https://blogmollylane.tumblr.com/.

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