But still, here I sit
toying with blackened words seeped in sadness
thinking lines like slow decline
broken hearted
so cliche and tear stained pages

clawing my way back from the brink
while shedding verbs of loneliness

isolated desperation clinging like my second skin
slowly flaking from my shoulders leaving only subtle traces
where my new skin yet feels to raw to pick up and carry on

stamping signs of happiness across black lines of begrudged depression
as though a noseless yellow face could succeed where I still fail
to vanquish the unease slowly eating at my restless mind

give me peace from these swinging moods
catapulting me between a selection of unfounded aggression and broken sobbing

I don't want to sit and think
words of how the light seems dim despite its heat

to take beauty out of sunrise
starlit nights and humble silence

take it back and leave me be
though I might not sleep for a week or three
as least I wont sit here late at night
and write depressed poetry