Depression

I am 
Nothing
But, maybe
A prisoner
Of my own Mind.

My depression is,
Maybe, a product of demonic oppression.
My incarceration is,
Maybe, a product of my isolation
What has isolated me
Feasts on me day and night.
What has incarcerated me
Feeds on my fears and doubt.
My confusion is a product of spiritual illusion.
My delusion is a product of my contagious infection.

I see what nobody sees
I hear what nobody hears
I know what nobody knows
Because it all passes when I am alone
Alone in the darkness
When light is scarce

I am afraid of the nights
Especially that time of the night
The time when they switch off the lights
They arrive to give me a fright

I try to sleep
But slumbers flees
I try to pray
But no words come out

What should I do
To make it through?

I am,
Nothing, 
But a slave
To the unseen...