Childhood,
that's when laughing was easy,
remember?

Back when blue was our favorite color
And sheets, boxes and cushions
were the best toys,
and bedroom window was our television
for the outside world.

Back when the lost and lonely followed us home,
and we had two families
And running in the backyard
was a smell of sweet freedom.

Back when swimming in the creeks was alright
and tree swings were the greatest invention
and candies can make you laugh all day.

Back when stones, shells and coins were treasures
and simple words were the sweetest thought
that comes out of our lips.
and writing songs about a life we never knew
was almost a second nature,
that life was as good as it seemed.

I've always lived inside a shell,
But i want to be free and
fly,
I've always felt like i'm nobody's,
but all i wanted to be
was everybodys',
I wasnt hungry for fame,
but deprived of love.
I still am.
I always thought i could
never be loved,
but i always badly
needed it,
I’ve always asked for
Recognition,
Because I’m never
Appreciated,
I’ve always called myself a loon,
Because I think,
I think too much dirt.
I don’t think im pretty,
‘cause from near,
When my demons are visible,
I see myself
My ugliness
Reflects,
Comes back at me.
More hatred.

When guys say , “ oh you’re so pretty,
You can get any guy you want!”
I shatter,because I think
They pretend and lie and repeat.
I don’t always get what I
Crave for,
Nor do I manage the relationships.
Or maybe they don’t see the real,
‘ugly’, ‘crazy’,’silly’,
Me.

I don’t see any bright light,
Darkness blurs my vision,
As if morning
Is still asleep,
Causing me more
Blindness.
But all I wanto see is
A ray of hope,shining at me.
For once,
I want to be called actually pretty,
Hot,cool,amazing,
From someone who’ll mean it and
From the one
I’d be able to believe.

But I am not sure
The pseudonym I choose
To live with,
Would let me
Accept what I am wishing for.
…….
That’s my issue,
I’m locked in this personality-cage.
I need rescue.
Save me from rage
Wake up.
Smile..
Fill another page

Depression is not a grey mist hanging over everything, it is the absence of the grey mist that 'normal' people are accustomed to. They experience life in a muted way. We, as depressives, get the chance to experience the truth, for that moment, and it is so unbearably painful because it is real.
Seeing this reality is being exposed to the truth. We think. Does the truth lie?