All I can ever seem to do
Is write poetry about depression
I can talk about how I've done nothing today
And forgot to do my laundry
Or anything else productive

In the past ten hours
I've left bed only a few times

I'm thinking about my hobbies
How I think I have so many
But all I do is spend time
Wishing I had something to do

I think I'm a passionate person
But passion doesn't sit around
Sulking and
Dreading every second

Who even am I?
I don't know if this vacuum resides in me
Or I in it
Or if I am just that vacuum
An absolute void

The depression rips away the joy
From living day to day
I know this
Everyone knows this

And so my poetry
Is like a broken record
Skipping, but never missing a beat
Leaving none for me to hit

And I can keep going
Like that broken record
But I'd rather just stop