Depression Cuts Sluices

The heart, the heart.

God the past few days have been awful.

My timidity has turned habitual,

sunk into myself like a pillow,

walking nowhere, waking nowhere.

“It’s the journey that counts,”

unless said route be darkening constantly,

which ‘tis.  Meanwhile life

struts on: couples talking, cars driving.

I am nowhere except here, although here

Is baneful, painful.  A wound beneath

The tooth.  An extricated, alienated feel.

The shock of nothing done, nothing put down.

Geese of my own anxiety, flailing.

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