Two hours till work on Monday.
Depression is lurking, quietly.
An unfulfilling job, no escape.
The end of the trudge? When?
This tunnel of despair,
the lights at the end, they were not.
Instead deceptions, each and all,
as they dashed my hopes.
No more of them to see.
Now it is just the darkness,
and the eternal trudge,
at least it feels that way.
I’d rather run and hide,
than go face the world,
but I have no choice,
I have responsibilities.
Perhaps, in some hours,
I’ll feel better, I hope.
That’s the normal way,
that this day goes.
Poetry
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I’ve found it – the poem I will refer people to when they ask “what’s wrong” on a cloudy, rainy Monday. This captures the essence of nagging dread that creeps in Sunday night/Monday morning.
Suggestion:
The commas are somewhat confusing in this stanza:
“The lights at the end of this,
tunnel of despair, were not.
Deceptions instead each,
and all, dashing my hopes.”
For better readability, I reccomend altering it to something along these lines:
“The lights at the end of this
tunnel of despair were not.
Instead, deceptions,
each and all,
dashing my hopes.”
OR
“The lights at the end of this
tunnel of despair were not.
Instead, deceptions
– each and all –
dashing my hopes.”
Thank you for the great feedback. I went ahead and modified the second stanza, I hope you’ll like it. Thanks! 🙂