The Metaphorical Guidebook on Depression

It's a box,
It has a crevice that lets me peer through,
Yet it closes in on itself,
Lest someone else gets a view.

It's a lens,
It shows the colour blue,
Yet it doesn't let me part ways,
Lest I see other colours on display.

It's a window,
It's locked from outside,
Yet the dew sliding on it shows my distorted smile,
Lest someone breaks the lock to check my plight.

It's the night,
It wraps me in its pitch black grip,
Yet I see no sign of sunrise,
Lest I break free and run into the light.

It's a cloud,
It creates thunders, lightning and rains,
Yet it never achieves the calmness of a sunny day,
Lest it ruins that game of emotions at play.

It's a tide,
It wipes away abilities, interests and appetite,
Yet it depends on an artificial high,
Lest sober minds understand the joy of real life.

It's a rope,
It binds me to the thoughts that creep in,
Yet it dangles above my head,
Lest I choose to run instead.

It's a maze,
It lures me within its intricate labyrinth,
Yet Ariadne's thread is nowhere to guide me,
Lest I realise the truth that is hiding at its end.

It's a deaf ear,
It is the one turned towards issues of mental health,
Yet I catch on to helping hands few,
Lest I lose my will to.

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