Trudging the depths of melancholy.
Stings like barbs found on holly.
As storms swirl inside my head.
Sometimes it’s better to go straight to bed.
Pause this tug of war in stalemate.
No point delving further into a pit of self hate.
Pacing back and forth like a tool.
Repetition could see me become the fool.
Sabotaging days to make them greyer.
As if I wish to be subjected to a flayer.
Punishing myself for each little misdeed.
No point in committing to this negativity feed.
Spiraling like a wheel with no brake.
Always seems to be my first mistake.
Gorging on a voice which just won’t quit.
That cynicism always ready to throw a fit.
Suppressing who I would prefer to be.
This person who is the real version of me.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 