dry bone will don flesh again
and the blind will count the hues of the rainbow
but my depression thunders—
dry bone will become drier
and the blind will never handpick their sight
last night, i broke my body before a friend
he ate it and his tastebud wore bitterness
his tongue struggled to belch the cliche, it's well. you will be fine.
my body is shut against a drizzle of hope
the last time hope drizzled from this body,
i counted my loss again—
my father walked out of a sickness' orifice
only for the ground to spit out a grave the next day.
i am allergic to joy,
it tells me a wilder storm is coming,
and a recess is what my body is gifted
or is this the doing of my depression?
Pixabay.com
Reading this contest makes me more depressed