Muck
Hi,
Hope you're having a good week.
I've had this scheduled for quite some time. I can't recall when it was written. Years ago, probably in a bout of depression. Sometimes I write as form of catharsis. It's not seeking pity. In the moment, it's just for me, trying to work out how I'm feeling.
Anchored
I scratch at the air
Which chokes me
Tar like shadows
Heaving at my legs
And I’m sinking
Ever sinking
The surface
No longer a memory
Merely an idea
Out of reach.
A heaving, cloying pit
With no end
No solace
Only the deep rejection
and ill formed assumptions
Like death
A new but darkened existence
Perhaps I died already
And remain slowly dragging
Through self-aware muck
To catch up.
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