there’s this sick comfort in depression
the absence of feeling is welcoming compared to the constant rush of emotions
the quietness and stillness from all that nothingness
it’s different from peace, it’s the lack of joy

there’s a sick comfort in depression
it’s the warm bed you can’t feel, it’s the concerned faces you can’t care about
it’s the locked door you can’t open
It’s different from calmness, it’s the lack of a steady heart beat

the comfort in depression is real, it’s the lack of feeling, it’s something on fire isn’t dulled out but completely extinguished
It’s gone
It’s dark
It’s black

Brother I know you’re tired
It’s your time to rest
Brother you died not by hands
You died of weight
The weight of the white man
The weight of your black skin

Brother you know we’re tired
But it’s not our time to rest
Brother we lift you up to sing and dance in the sky