Soft

When I say

that I'm done

with the

world.

I do not

mean I am

done with

living.

When I say

that I am

done with

the world.

There is still

that little soft

light, the

embers of

hope.

Flickering

I think.

endlessly

inside my

beaten heart.

A faint

buzzing,

reverberating

in my skull.

Like the hum

of the earth

as it turns.

I'm spun.

Wondering,

wondering

what the

fucking point

is. And why,

Oh why.

Does anyone

think that

"everything

happens for a

reason" is still

a thing to be

said when

terrible

things

happen.

And isn't it a

wonder, how

you can feel

so much.

And yet be

numb as hell.

Everything asked 

of me, feels

like pulling teeth.

Depression.

Resistance to

calling it what

it clearly is. 

The fog is so heavy, 

But it’s wrapped 

around me so gently 

It already feels 

like home.

Again.