They are all the same. My artistry shot through, my ability disjointed. Let it stop. I can’t create anything worth a damn anymore. I have such hatred for you Faithless. I despise you Faithless. And yet perhaps I cannot hate enough. I am still here. Is it the medication? Is it a peverse bond with my dearests? Am I really not that depressed? What am I perhaps? I know what I was; Smart, artsy, witty, social and earning a decent wage. What am I now poor, sad, pathetic, dense and medicated. I was never alone, I will never pretend at that. I still have such beauty in my life, in the way of friends and partners. Yet still it ticks at me, scratches at me. I still hurt me. Is it really hurting? I just want the outside to look like the inside, to punish me if you will. I’m sick I think, so sick perhaps. Yet I in all my pestilence sit here still. Only able to prattle away as an anonymous poster. Yet another depressed human on the internet. Escaping perhaps reality for those precious minutes. I am not worthy of redemption, just let there be peace.