My depression is a transgression
against me, and mine.
I never asked to be contaminated
with this strife.

My depression is a possession
of evil, of illness.
I never thought I would be
rife with highs and lows.

My depression is a progression
of good and bad thoughts.
I never wanted to be
violated with cries and lies.

My depression is a weapon
against all who suffer its woes.
I hope the afterlife takes this repression
and nullifies it's effects.

My depression is mine but
suffered by many. We are pulverised,
neutralised and modified by our own
minds and medicated to keep sated.

My depression is Legion
a wickedness to the self.
A circle unending, unbending,
curving toward suppression of oneself.

All that man has ever thought
Or what he'll ever be
Transpires through
Documentation
Written
Throughout
History


~~~~~~~~~
Books  they are the legacies
Left to  all mankind
Past from generation
To the  next one left behind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They are the wisest of all counsellors
The quietest of friends
The most patient of teachers
On whom one can depend
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No  comparison
To mans inventions
Regardless of the toil
it took
Even  our  creator
Left his words

Within a book.........

I found her near a large Oak in the woods,
Not far from where that old cabin stood,
She was sputtering blood and not far from death,
I hadn't much water, but I gave her what was left,
Her eyes so weary and the purest black,
I felt heartless and wondered what her attacked,
Her wounds malicious and so very deep,
Yet she didn't convulse or even weep,
The Sun was almost rising then,
I wondered what compelled such men,
She had been, the passed night, all alone,
I knew all she wanted was Home,
And slowly her eyes went right to mine,
At that moment, I knew inside,
I watched every ounce pass from this life,
I sat there, pathetic, wondering if I could cry,
I heard her last painful and drowning breath,
She heard, like a gavel, my passing steps.