Game Over

You can't write it as a poem, it's the furthest thing from art

It’s quiet, not loud. It's exceptionally dark

It's a whisper in your ear, it’s a tug on your heart

It’s being pulled underwater, in the driest of parts.

It’s knowing what to feel but still not feeling it 

It’s standing still and yet you're still stuck in it. 

It’s needing pain to feel, or smoke to breathe.

It’s not living in a house but signing a lease. 

And the worst part is, it isn’t a choice.

It’s a disease with no cure, taking its victims voice

If you’ve been in it then you know you can come out. 

But each time it's a little easier to fall back down.

You can pick up a controller and choose to press play

But the second you lose, it's to depression you fall prey.