This poem is from probably the darkest time in my depression. I'm not very proud of it, but I though I should put it up.

.

.

As I sit in the blank sterilized room,

The physical pain is nothing.

No thread is thick enough to stitch me up,

No soap strong enough to clean me throughout.

No amount of pretty words will make me happy.

A million tears won't purge me of these memories.

And as my body lays here in this hospital bed,

I will slip into an emptiness that consumes me.

So when you wake me, I shall be roaming the mountains,

And you will be left with an empty shell of despair.

Now let is consume you.

Indigo Reality