This is a fictional poem, I am not sad or depressed or anything. I wanted to write from the perspective of someone who was feeling low. For the Huch poetry world open poetry contest by Michael Huch.
Suddenly when melancholy arrived, she engraved the words 'sad' deep into my manic mind. Then abandoned me in a pit of sinister silence. Who turned out the lights inside the moon? Now the horizon looks like tar and the voices become louder. Every morning is a miserable melody in this malady of heavy sighs. I strum the invisible strings of my mourning mandolin, but they keep on weeping in a chilling refrain, as each note cuts deeper. Now my bed is like a crimson river, soaking in stains of regret, as daggers of stubbornness, stab like unspoken words. These tears taste so acidic. Eyes feel saggy with dark circles, like droopy, decaying flowers and I don't know if I'm tired or aging too quickly, so they remain closed. Time ticks too slowly, as I remain in stillness, with a hollow cocoon heart. Its shell full of cracks, waiting for happiness to knock on the door.
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