I'm not a depressed person. Depressed poems are just easy to rattle off and able to pass as decent. This one barely does, in my opinion. Yours?

-Gollum

Wondering what to do with my - the- time

the tree outside sways, fragile

wind whistling through the one crack, the tiniest defect

yet it affects the whole structure

slowly the branch, with a sickening crunch, lurches

filling me with nausea

I sit back on the clean white pillow

as it snaps

ended

like I will

soon

one day