My depression has grown on me,
As that vine has conquered the oak,
It is a sucking thing that has wrapped
Itself around me, ugly and more alive than I,
It has a life of its own, drawing energy
From my core, bit by bit it has asphyxiated
All of my life out of me.

At my worst stage of major depression,
I have moods that I know are not mine,
They belong to the depression,
As surely as the leaves on that tree’s
High branches belong to the vine.

My pen bleeds solitary,
As I try to repaint the dark scenes
With rainbow colours, and the roots
Of this vine have dug so deep in my core
That removing them might kill me,
It has become a bitter part of my life,
Waging wars between my flaws and fears