Depression tastes like
passionate kiss with death;
late night rendezvous
near the gates of hell.

It tastes like the sour taste
of colourful pills
that attempt to diffuse
the landmines of your mind.
But a stick as a weapon
in a war of the worlds
will get you nowhere.

Depression tastes like
the grey touch added
to your mother's cooking.
Black bell peppers
and blood stained onions
poison your deluded senses.

It tastes like the last time
you kiss yourself goodbye,
watching your soul escape
as you lie in a puddle of red
huddled on a white tiled floor.

It tastes like the overpowering zest
of giving up
that lingers in your mouth
until you wash it clean with acid.

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