The Beast

It lives inside, surviving at my expense. Parasitic, it takes nourishment from my hope and will. Freedom cowers under its viscous fog. When it slumbers it is weak but rests somewhere safe.

Secreting a sedative it renders me helpless. I feel no pain from its invasion but pain comes from its presence. I witness their pain but feel bereft of responsibility. The part of me that knows the truth is weak and ignored.

I reluctantly shut down under its superior strength. Numbness stifles the head, and my energy drains. Helplessness feels natural, perversely comfortable. Desires are feeble and it’s an effort to speak. The beast thrives.

Anger roars easily, like a tormented lion in a cage prodded and poked by callous passers-by. Music sedates the beast and reaches inside to awaken me. When exposed to it, my malevolent visitor grows weak as my emotions live and dance freely once more. I am enthused by its therapeutic effect.

The louder the medicine, the stronger the result, and the beast retreats further. But unperturbed, it sleeps and cares little. It scoffs at this temporary threat. Music is briefly all-powerful, I bask in its healing and the fog scatters.

Soon after the quiet returns, the beast creeps back – the beast thrives.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2000

Comments

  1. I wrote this in times no longer so bad, but feel it expresses perfectly how I once felt, and what depression can be like.

  2. I love this poem. I’ve felt exactly the same.

  3. Many thanks for your feedback Daniel. It’s great to hear how someone else has connected with the way I expressed it – even though it’s sad to hear of anyone who has actually felt it.

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