This wave of depression gets stronger every time it hits
me.More meaningful than the last, more force than the
last. 
I feel like falling, but I’m already on the ground. 
The mask I put on fades away like a photograph, and my wall
for strength is useless; it only gets closer to me as the
ground collapses before my feet. 
The halted silence is everything but nothing. 
The noise inside my head is everything but controllable. 
My screams for silence are anything but heard. 
The shots of abuse hit me as softly as a bullet. 
The smell of anger is as painless as a rotting corpse
dreading its existence. 
The need for placement is stronger than before, and weaker
than the next. 
The light at the end of my tunnel is a train pacing slowly
until the queue for its release.