Ultimape

Lashings of poetry encircle.                                                        Squeezing the void within. My body a sponge.                                                        Condensing blood drips into the abyss. Flooding                                                        of my soul. I must outweep the poetry.                                                        Collecting water. Pooling misery into my hands.                                                        Conserving what little I can. Overflows                                                        of my soul. The poetry slowly rots away.                    

Hello depression my old friend, we were due to meet again. All you do is lay in bed, wishing you were simply dead. This is the sound of suffering. This is the noise my demons bring. From my pain creativity grows. Longing for a means to end my woes. I don't want to be silent anymore. Losing all those that I adore. This horrid feeling that I hate. I just want it to abate. This sickness a mental virus. This is the sound of silence: http://youtu.be/5gFnCwVqbWs