I am looking for an escape from my wicked betrayal of a mind, I no longer long for time to last ticking slowly and ever more rewarding but wish it to quicken its malevolent pace. I am afraid I can’t break free, that all those who thought me worthless are right, for if I think of myself as a sufficient writer, I discern teachers of old bidding me unworthy to cross ink upon my canvas. I tear my heart onto this page for the days of my existence are numbered. I am a broken, unfixable, unmanageable man. The world around me is chaotic, and I am trapped in a dark, gloomy, translucent cell of my mind with no bars glimmering with light and hope that day may break the darkness within. I am a shut-in, I find that to wake up is a struggle I should no have to bare. I lye in bed trying to contemplate competency, but nothing exists in my malicious being. I try and try to stand, but my legs function not, so I stay and stare at the walls of the vacancy I feel within. I am dead, for the dead produce more response than I, the broken man; This is my depression, my inescapable existence.