I wondered,
How could the great Artists and Writers,
Give in to depression.
Had they not feel their art within,
Or had their art not heal them in?
If only had they blend with the strokes,
Fused themselves with the Prose.
Would they have been here?
Why would they disappear?
I got my answer for it all,
When this poem’s end called.

Life is like a hourglass,
Never even,
Always clicking out,
Never stable.
I want to get to it's top,
But the curves make me fall,
Down and beneath it all.
Wanna become like it's kind,
Narrow neck always pined.
But never attained in the hands,
While the thoughts turn into sands,
Is life all about running errands?

I get sleep,
A real one.
But I’m scared to accept it,
Cause I don’t know if I can.
If I deserve it,
While all I do is,
Dilly dallying,
While nothing’s happening.
When I have everything to be happening.