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Ducktape

Depression likes so often to scrape

The back casket shell of my hellish, beating mind.

It backs down, now and then, but only for short time.

There’s a fine line between the dark crow and me - perched upon my side shoulder;

It weighs me tethered down, screaming no sound, like a rapturous black shackled boulder.

I’m starting to notice the permanent fixture, that chose this pernicious space.

And only as I’ve gotten older, I’m slowly learning to embrace…

The nurture then torture,

The chronic disorder,

The bestial mutation,

Before the euphoric elation.

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