Eleven years have passed
What may as well be a lifetime

He feels these constant feelings of hopelessness
"It is depression"
Says the man
Engulfed by his ironically white coat

Time is all there is to push him forward
His thoughts, his feelings, his hopes
They are drowning
He is drowning; sinking into a pool of viscous waste

Surrounded by mates he feels enlighten
Blood begins pumping into his dying heart
Excitement and thrills arrive
Clad in their armour and ready to pounce

But spasms
Like leaking faucets they flow, stream
Gush out without a sign of stopping
The shot is too far and the javelin of speech prematurely shoots

The crowd goes silent
Parting, after glances are passed
Those of disgust
Maybe annoyance

He knows what has happened
Now he must fall
Back down, he submerges himself
Into the abyss of darkness and desolation

Social affairs are his greatest fear
An unconquerable enemy who neither eats nor sleeps
It holds a double edged swords
Perpetually polished with his soul as a whetstone

His entire world is crashing down on him
There is nothing he can do
The truth is
Despair and despondence are his only friends

This feeling
These feelings
He has no help
He can not control

He is left to die
His bottle of tranquilizers
It will serve more use
Than the man in white could ever have imagined