Time

This is a poem of death’s time finally catching up to me.

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time’s running out on the clock.

The crooked, calloused, and chapped hands of depression enclose around me.
There are rust covered chains around my hands and feet; I’m locked inside a me,

That was never even me.

I no longer belong to myself,
I’m a visitor to my own mind.
Her voice crept inside and she wrapped me in choking binds.

My life moves past and I have no say,
She lives through me and she sleeps where I lay.

She sounds, looks, and smiles like me.
So perfectly disguised,
The people I love don’t have a clue.
Inside I cry unmoving; paralyzed.

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time’s running out on the clock.

The bruising, battered, and black hands of depression are suffocating me.
Leaving me with deep wounded scars and
My weightless body hanging from a tree,

Up for display, so everyone can see.