Misery is a tragic novel that proves challenging to put down,
Largely in the absence of light, once the Sun has made its rounds.
It’s like a book you would rather read in the dusk, in the rain,
Between gray clouds who rumble nothing else but pain.
If you try your eyes in the dark eventually you shall, without strain,
Find from the shadows clouded gems and course-less veins.

How cowering minutes turn to hours of riddance.
The hands of time stiff as they stab, splits at it scabs,
But you are the one carving fragments from flesh
Public you display for others impressed, only to digress.
Eventually you will use every last inch of yourself,
Until nothing will be left.

What people forget to mention about depression
Is that it has nothing to do with being sad.
It’s the half-numb sound that raindrops hold
Falling down a void that once was whole.
Speaking not a sound, streaming past the soul.
Because they too cannot find solid ground,
or any place called home.  

They come from your book, to which you are the script
The pages too wet, for any new ink to stick
You are left hanging on a page that is no longer crisp
Turn to new leaves, don’t leave your story in amiss.

And for now, put the book down,
Wait for the pages to dry flat
While the next time the Sun makes its rounds.
Just make sure you say, "Hi" back.