Depression

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 07, 2018

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Submitted: November 07, 2018

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How come people can’t hear

the ripping of the heart?

How come people can’t see the scars

their words leave on the skin of their victim?

How come no one tries to help the wounded,

but choose to help the sickening evil people?

How come there is no hero in a cape behind your every move

shielding you from the consequences?

How come there are emotions tearing each

and every one of us to shreads?

It may do it to you slowly

but it still does it.

It tears, and tears, and tears

until you are just bones rotting on the step.

Until we figure out what causes this

we will rot in our own thoughts.

We will try to understand

who our companions are.

While the sick plot behind us

planning our downfall.

You can’t run from this destiny

it always finds you.

It’ll rip you to shreads

until you are not but a pile of ashes left on a grave.

It’ll puncture your very own heart

and leave the holes uncovered to bleed out.

Can you imagine

being left in the dark?

Because that’s depression

which is all but a sick disease.

No one can see it

but I can feel it.

It’s shadows creep

and blanket over me.

It suffocates the good ones

and leaves the wicked to prey on more.

It’s an agonizing thing

not something you recieve out of the blue.


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