All this shouldered weight
keeps me on the ground.
I do find I come alive
When the aching thoughts enshroud.

My thoughts come wordless
and more in the form of imagery.
Floating moments of ideology
Engulfing down to the core of me.

I get lost when I let go of
that weight ache,
that cementing, sobering,
oddly comfortable state.

Maybe what I desire
is yet to be portrayed
in the limits of language
and thus ensues
a dramatic cranial display.

Envisioned arms splayed out to connect,
to coalesce,
But finger tips never touch.
Here lies another image of regress.

So I guess
I'll reinstate that woeful weight
to recreate
the fondly familiar leadened gait.

At this I am best.
Yes,
I believe I am self-made depressed.