The Pit of Depression

Falling
Down down down
Into a quagmire of
Pitch
Black
Molasses.

Thick ooze congeals
Pressing on me.
I cannot breathe.
Unable to fight.

Asparagus fingers
Hold me under
The wet mass fills my nostrils
And leaves an acrid oversweet tang
On my tongue.

Silence.
Stronger than the quiet between your toes.
Louder than the roar between your ears.

This solitude has its comforts
But like spaghetti,
Its tendrils are never ending.

I spiral slowly
Spinning toward the nothingness below.

The anger beats freshly in my chest
Curling open its lips
And unleashing an almighty roar
That is swallowed
By the eternal thick goo.

This is my moment. My epiphany.
It is my time to strike.
But then
Lethargy and ambivalence
Force me to succumb
And I am drowned by my
Self-preservation.

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