It's a strange thing to look inside yourself
and see darkness, black oil bubbling
with animal feathers floating,
drowning  in the thick.
I feel like a well, with nothing but depth
with no one to pull me out, no rope
to even hang myself with.
When you sit in the darkness
with wings too sticky to fly out
you see faces and reflections
that take your mind and stretch it
into unrecognizable shapes.
I am stuck in the oil
of my compressed stress.

Because I'm working at my job,
And it is cash that I'm needing,
I regret I'll be a no-show
For next week's poetry reading.

But please don't feel too bad for me,
As I plan to make the next one,
With newly-penned material
That will leave the audience spun.

"I must go tend to the roses," he said

but when they found him he was already dead.

The beautiful white roses now stained red,

they panic at the sight of their brother laying, yet not a single tear is shed.

The family knew it was all in his head,

the depression and voices are the reason he is now dead.

They stand, looking at the cut upon his wrists with every word unsaid,

unlike most families, there were no tears, but smiles instead.

Knowing that he had finally escaped the voices in his head.