He was in it,
It defined him.
He needn't a name any more-
He was depression.

He looked down his mug,
But he didn't see coffee.
Instead, he saw a dirtied river
With decaying souls swimming
Lifelessly in it.

He drank it,
Closing his eyes at the bitterness
Of death.
Feeling the souls
Pour past his throat.

He lay on his bed
Staring at the ceiling.
It was white...
So white...
Like angels...
That you met only when you were
Dead.

Like innocence,
Beauty,
Pure souls;
Everything he was not.

The tears fell once again
Becoming his newly found friends.
They were there to cheer him up,
There for him.
But he could taste the blood too,
The ones that he never wanted,
But kept craving to get out of him-
The blood that poured out his veins.

      Depression

It ran through her blood,
Which was becoming scarce.
The knife was her saviour,
God was her angel.

She was happy.
That was her stoic mask.
She smiled, she was cheerful.
She brightened moods.
She cared so much.

But underneath the bubbles
Was a permanent frown,
One that could never turn upside down.

She envied the smiles of anyone else.
She could never be like that.
Her beauty resembled a stone-
Dull, boring, Crooked and unnoticed.


Her blue eyes stood for the tears
That overflowed inside.
Her red hair matched
The broken heart within.

She only wanted happiness-
Real, not fake.
She begged God whilst slitting her wrists.
The blood poured out
And she hoped it took the sadness away too.

But she would wake up the next morning,
Tears drenched in her pillow,
Freshly cut wounds bled to her sheets,
And a heart that eventually turned to ashes.