Pangs of a Strange Devil

A poem about depression

Pangs of a strange devil,
Pierce through my chest.
No blood spills, no skin breaks.
Not a visible tear of flesh.
Yet my heart bruises in silence.

The devil disappears,
Satisfied with the feast.
Knowing he will take much time,
To rejuvenate and heal.

And so time passes,
I carry myself, broken and branded.
Gloom and despair arresting my heart.
But I mend, slowly, surely.
Not letting the devil get its want.

Pangs of a strange devil,
Pierce through my chest.
No blood spills, no skin breaks.
Not a visible tear of flesh.
Yet scars appear underneath the chest.

The devil disappears, time its ally.
Satisfied with its work.
Patience is the key to break him down,
And let grief swallow his self-worth.

The seasons change, time passes.
I carry myself, broken, branded.
This hurt more, but hope withstands.
But quietly a fracture irreparable hangs.

Pangs of a strange devil,
Pierce through my chest.
A little blood spills, some skin breaks.
A small cut of flesh.
Yet my heart is battered and bruised.

The devil disappears, smiling.
Satisfied with progress.
A wound persists.
The first puncture of many.

New walls, old ghosts.
I carry myself - broken, branded.
Trying to heal but cracks grow.
I need to hold on to hope.

Pangs of a strange devil,
Pierce through my chest
Some blood spills, some skin breaks.
A cut of flesh.
And my heart staggers with unrest.

The devil disappears,
The progress is immense.
It's only a matter of time,
And he will be mine.

People change, time goes.
Broken, Branded.
Healing, how many holes in my heart?
Hoping for a savior, but alas!

Pangs of a strange devil.
Pierce through my chest.
Blood spills, skin breaks.
Flesh bruised.
And my heart shatters and breaks.