I feel like I can't speak
I want to just yell, shout, and scream
But I can't

I want to be productive
Play the piano and just exhale something inspired and creative
But I can't

I have a desire to feel anything else
To smile and laugh sounds terrific
But I can't

Because I am a prisoner to my depression
It has chained me to this bed
As much as I want to get up, the shackles just chafe my skin

My skin has become so dry I just want some type of moisture
Longing for the sweet hydration of relief
The relief of joy

When will this end?
I want to be release
But I can't find the key

the right kind of voyeurism: watching fields between two secret lovers burn in public conversation
always scorched with the threat of renewed fertility
always racked by a chilling lonely wind that gently brushes back the hair the manifest intimacy of a crafty doppelganger: in these spaces we live in constant mortal peril of discovery by an other or a spore