My arm extends, bony, pale and weak, reaching from the dark abyss I am coalescent with. My hand leads attempting to escape for a moment, longing to put words on record, hoping to bring the remainder of my being solace from the blanket of melancholy.
Prose far beyond the coming lines will be forced. This stream of troubled thought will cease expeditiously. My words are reluctant prisoner of the daunting will of depression. My hand and wretched arm retreat to the lightless specter of what I have become
Depressive Ramblings
JA Freeman
2012/4/17
Prose far beyond the coming lines will be forced. This stream of troubled thought will cease expeditiously. My words are reluctant prisoner of the daunting will of depression. My hand and wretched arm retreat to the lightless specter of what I have become
Depressive Ramblings
JA Freeman
2012/4/17