Blessed

People tell me I have a gift,
For these words I pen to this page.
But what they do not comprehend.
Is how this pen fuels my rage.

Such a small object,
Long and narrow it does not speak.
It mocks my emotions,
It makes me weak.

It brings back memories,
Ones I wish to forget.
Reminding me constantly,
Of all that I regret.

I want to break it,
But I'm afraid that I too would bleed.
I'm frightened of what I'd become without it.
As if I need it, if I am to succeed.

Have I consumed it?
Or has it consumed me?
It's my voice in this world,
Without It I can not see.

It taunts my soul,
Knowing without it I can not exist.
For to it I must subside,
Because my thoughts can not resist.

It's a gift they say,
This ability to be depressed.
It's a gift they say,
They say I am blessed...

(c) Jacob M Parnell