Depression Like a Seashell

A seashell is round, a circle unending,
It’s sharp and unruling.
The emptiness, bland and white,
Swirls closed and tight.
The shell, representing depression,
Downward, in direction.
It hurts and stabs, cuts and scars.
And feels like rusty bars.
You lose it, without a trace,
Look it in the face.
Gone forever, or so you thought,
In the waves, it got caught.
It travels to the shore and hooks you again,
Leaving you with no gain.
Depressed and down, and cut by the edge,
Scaring again, living the age.
If it shall leave, it leaves you in shock,
Cause all that left, is the time on the clock.
Living depressed is lonely at best,
And the emptiness tells the rest.

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