Talk.

Your pain is not special. 

But it's real.

No matter what that voice will tell you,

Deep in the night. Worse

At dawn, in the dark

As you wait for the alarm.

No will to rise. Then

Late in the morning, 

With the shades drawn.

The feeling of a heavy boot

Sat high upon your chest.

Somehow, you shower but 

The fade into afternoon, comes quickly

“what’s the point in doing anything now”

It’s too late. 

Always too late, 

Or too early.

Dripping with lethargy.

The hours disappear.

Life disappears.

I have disappeared.

Do I need drugs? Or just

An honest conversation. 

Why is it so much easier 

To stay miserable than choose 

Myself.