Anxiety, Depression, Possession.
Ed Stackhouse

My heart it feels such awful pain,
A python squeezes it again.

Some hair pulled out, some skin gets sliced,
My worry brings the crudest vice.

I feel alone though friends surround,
The siren’s laugh; a piercing sound.

That which is felt I cannot share,
I lack Shakespeare’s poetic flair.

Away from me demoniac,
My dusk now fades to shades of black.

Rip out my heart that feels such pain,
And bring the grave’s final refrain.

It’s not the light that makes me ill,
But darkness makes me calm and still.

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