This poem illustrates the feelings one young man experienced when dealing with depression.
Falling deeper into the black goo
That grabs hold and sticks it’s claws in you.
It drags and carves
Rending you less and less
Until there’s nothing left
But a dark little spirit full of hate and stress.
It cuts and it pulls, consuming
All the while you’re left there assuming
That there’s no choice,
You have no voice,
Every sinew, tendon and fibre fight to no avail in the end you can only fail.
These grotesque feelings rot your insides
To a cold, unforgiving black
That prevents any chances you have of fighting back.
You try to climb out but are given an unearthly smack,
plunging you deeper and deeper into this unending black.
You then give up, let it fill your lungs, your head, your entire being,
and only then can you see the sites left unseen.
At the bottom of the black is a great white light.
Once again you feel the urge to fight.
You now find that the doctor was right.
Why fight the goo?
Let it boil inside like some fetid stew?
Instead change what you can change,
Soon enough you’ll find that you can arrange
to have this dark nasty stuff sent off on a range only to come back when it is useful.
When is that? Who can say?
But you’ll get to live to fight another day.