Comedic Depression — W.M. Kirkland

I'm under constant pressure from working with incompetent people, avoiding repeated calls from America, I'm too scared to take. My life is a multitude of buried emotions, forced by a life shattering event. In my head, under the radar of others, I engage in a glut of unspoken conversations, too abrasive for the real world. If these were to creep out, just slip nonchalantly from my warped mind to my tongue, people around me would recoil in horror and call the special team to take me away. Somewhere soft. Somewhere bright. I have never felt comfortable. Have I run out of excuses to be here? Perhaps there is something more beyond this? Maybe I should just say what I feel and watch the implosion? As my past catches up with me, I realise the running shoes no longer fit. Let's start another race. What harm can I do?