The beast returned,
sneaky but blatant,
silent but like a train.
It wreaks a physical toll
from the inside out,
binds and confines,
tells you lies you
can’t help but believe,
then utters truth you
won’t hear.
I drove away once,
the beast in my rear view,
standing, waving after I
tried running it over.
I’d murder the beast.
It’s killed me and mine
so many times I’d barely blink
as I squeezed its neck.
But I haven’t.
The beast returns,
cunning as a sledgehammer,
hard like a pillow
over your face,
friendly as the smiling shadow
at your door.
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Odd to click ‘like’ on a poem about the haunting of depression but I know you’ll understand that I mean that I think you’ve captured the push-down-dark of the feeling accurately and poetically.