Grip of Depression

The silence of my room
Isn’t so bad,
There are small sounds after all…
The faint sound of my electric clock,
And the drip sound coming out of the bathroom
Seems to make everything alright.
And a passerby speaks to the mail man…I hear
Them mumble outside my window.
I don’t see them though, my shades are drawn
So I just lay here
Smelling my fabric softened sheets
Thinking of how warm the sun must be
On their sweaty faces.