Last weeks a downward slope
Each day feeling unable to cope
Everything beyond a depressed scope
Struggling against hopelessness
Feeling utter loneliness
Separated from liveliness
There should been preparations© REDCAT
A goal achieved celebrations
Not dark depressive deteriorations
The weight off the world seems to lay on my shoulders. However-much I work against it. All old harmfull programming is in full force. Sending out censors and critics to tell me off for every not written to prompt, shame me every unanswered comment.
Some form of perfect storm. The pandemic and isolation.
Me on the cusp of achievement.
The step where I usually self-sabotage.
As the publishing process has long been out of my hands, I hoped for a feeling of accomplishment. Instead my twisty-loopy-trauma-scared mind makes the most of trying to make me feel fear and confusing. Trying to downplay my work into worthless nothingness, wondering how I can presume to have something to say.