The Ship Print

i write to extract the feelings from my bones
these deeply-rooted, broken to the core regards
for the aspects of my life that cause helpless
hopelessness
I don't remember the last time the blues had
rendered me useless to this extent
The extent to which I will never be able to fully map out, much like the traversings
of thought from one neuron to the next
i only see the results of my lack.
played out like a drama, sung like an Ave Maria, basked in like the gloom that surrounds a mourn-deprived dead body
no one knew and fewer will miss.
I measure my distress in clicks of the mouse and sorrowful glances at my phone
in the inability to procure pleasure, the disabling way i rely on some other poor soul
to feed me temporary and distracted relief from a spoon.
It is pitiable and all-encompassing and debilitating--keeping me at a lull,
forcing the numbness to show in my reflection
How else to purge the demons?