Searching for something to make me feel alive,
for it's no longer enough to carry on and merely survive.
Life has lost it's flavour; rather like eating cardboard each day.
Where lies the tragedy in the things I continue to say?
Is it in waking up each morning against my very will?
Or is it in having each second tainted by the darkness painfully still?
Everything is (and I am) depression;
the tragedy is in my never-ending tribulation.

Hope leaves you vulnerable and fragile;
it’s prone to shattering in a way most agile.
And once it has broken in every way it can,
you end up bleeding more than before it all began.
You drown in the sea of disappointment;
suffocated by desolation so poignant.
The world seemingly survives on hope,
and also dies because of it - hope is a slippery *****.