Me, but not Myself, nor I

I feel worthless. 

I feel stupid. 

I feel useless. 

I feel nothingness overcoming me and eating all of my 'goodness'. 

Despite how hard I try and fight, it's all for not. 

The change of seasons that kills the trees, in turn kills my spirit and traps me in a hibernation of depression.  

Frozen, in a self made tomb of self hate, as fragile as glass, and sharp as a knife. To insure to keep any possibility of help far from reach. 

Till spring can spring me from this morose penitentiary; I will be stuck with this sick and demented version of myself.