|–.–|

Back in the ink of thoughts.

Still colored obsidian.

But now textured incomplete licorice.

This ink is missing its current.

It has consciousness,

But that of one in a coma.

Stalling.

It's a safety net.

It's a hazardous trap.

It's warm and cool.

It's burning and biting.

It wants you to sleep

All day

And think all night.

But

Never rest.

It steals the light from eyes

And

Warps space into slow motion.

It keeps you existing

While never living.

Waking up is half the battle.

Escaping is the second half.

Remembering to move forward the war.

This isn't your artist's ink.

This is depression.

And it's only

One of its forms.