My black dog

This is not a joke. 
Or a proclamation of the Lords.
Not something spontaneous or compulsory.
It starts like a butterfly flaps her wings;
With you imagining your own funeral.
No it won't end there
You will become a poet
Then a reader
And then everything will stop.
No it won't redeem your hidden talents
You will forget all the special words
No punctuation mark will ease your pain.
Breathe, they say
But you only breathe toxicity
You shake walls 
You hold a teddy bear
You ask for help from inanimate matter.
Because the real ghosts are people,
Not hiding under your bed.
They dwell in your brain.
You hear them saying
'not good enough',
'this is wrong'.
And you? 
You just want to take your brain 
Out of your skull and crush it

// inspiration: I found myself talking to walls that antidepressants don't work//