I'm writing this a bit after I wrote the original poem: upon further reflection it seems to me that it is problematic to say to people with depression that they are immature- and that is not my intention at all. Anyone who wants to die (which is not mutually exclusive to depression) because of mental illness is obviously exempt from the idea presented in the above poem. Mental illness is not something I am qualified to speak on nor do I consider myself capable on commenting on such a thing and it would be ridiculous for me to do so. This therefore is a standard that I hold myself to, alone, as a person without mental illness; therefore it does not apply to someone that has mental illness.

That being said, this poem is intended to focus on the day to day activities we partake in as a human race and the maturity that comes with accepting things as-they-are rather than how we wish them to be. There comes a time when people grow up and decide that life is worth living, every single bit of it. And that is what I'm talking about.