Nearly twenty years ago this was written. I was 28 and disabled by clinical depression. I could do nothing but fight to lift a pen quietly and secretly document it. The monstrous kidnapper inside was asleep at the time.
Alone; just me and the monster
We are together in a peaceful nightmare
It is resting for now but will strike again
Soon enough I’ll be writhing in emotional pain
and isolated from civilisation
Staring through impenetrable walls
seeing life on the other side carry on regardless
It’s no good screaming to be heard
I’ve tried and failed
They continue without knowing or noticing
Anyway this despair has turned into an iceberg of silence
I gaze aimlessly
Hoping soon enough I will be rescued
Surely someone will hear my lack of noise
I wait patiently; can not toss and turn
The monster will wake up and torment me more
When it does I have no defence
Will has been stolen from my heart
What does all this mean?
Am I the living dead?