there’s this sick comfort in depression
the absence of feeling is welcoming compared to the constant rush of emotions
the quietness and stillness from all that nothingness
it’s different from peace, it’s the lack of joy

there’s a sick comfort in depression
it’s the warm bed you can’t feel, it’s the concerned faces you can’t care about
it’s the locked door you can’t open
It’s different from calmness, it’s the lack of a steady heart beat

the comfort in depression is real, it’s the lack of feeling, it’s something on fire isn’t dulled out but completely extinguished
It’s gone
It’s dark
It’s black

These emotions don't belong to me.

Struggle awake, restless eyes.
Arms begin to shake, fix on my disguise.
Walk beneath my toes, legs attempt to fall.
Tired of thinking If anyone really knows, giving up on it all.
Talk though half spoken words, treat your ears to all my lies. Seems as if everyone is sharpening their swords, even still laughter flies. Exhausted from being, wanting to fade away. Questioning what I'm feeling, before what I'm feeling sways. Engulfed by my bed, left to be forgotten.
Except for the voices in my head, because in the inside I'm rotten. Close my eyes for the final time, my tune has chimed for my
sleepless eternity

I'm drained;
I'm empty;
I'm going crazy;
I want to rest.

Worn out. No gas, no flame.
No shimmer, no shine.
I, another dying star in the jet black sky.