I swallow my own medicine in hopes of sadness curved

I can't say it does nothing

But wish it were more potent

My words rebound and mock me

"What seems to be the issue?"

I know it is a cycle

Acceptance is my name

And still I tire of visits from this most unwelcome guest

I feel it in my stomach

It spreads throughout my chest

What is it though but energy

And why should it be bad?

How does surrender differ from complacency?

To strive and be content at once

That staggering enigma

To embrace the orbit of depression

Yet not desire its presence

To be still in its return

Yet seek to heal all the same

"There's nothing left to say"

The hypocrite writes