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.