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Writer's picturethe graveyard zine

Everpresent Depression


Why is it them who I fear the most,

— Who seem to be the ones I can’t live without?


Why is it so, when all they do I bring me

— pain, sorrow, and frustration?


What have I done to have this handed to me?

— This burden, this ever-present life I yearn to throw away?

— This ever-present life I dread waking up-to,

— I deem it nothing but misery?


What is it they want from me?

— Is it my soul they desire?

— My empty vessel?

— What is it they are here for?


I know not what I want either,

—But to clap eyes on the darkness that hides all around me,

—But to take in the fall of rain on the metal rooftop, drowning out the voices.

—But to feel the warmth of an unseen sun.


 

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