The disappointments continue to stack, like the mail on the counter, spilling onto the floor. Post cards from people I don’t know, looking to me to fill their pockets and empty souls. I won’t play that game anymore.
Depression has a hold on me. Again, the feelings of wet sand cement me. Locked in this location. Can someone please kick this yellow plastic bucket off my head? I’d like to see the sea as it comes for me. Pulling me out of this hole and dragging me out to the deep blue. Away from all of this and you.
I’m just alone with myself. Asking for answers. Looking out into nothing. Hoping for release. Dreaming of the dead, the flowers of tomorrow and the end of it all.
© Dallas J. Moore 2015