Outside, facing forward,
Eyes glazed yet looking onward.
Hands move constantly,
We’ve lost ourselves emotionally.
Look onwards to a bar,
Lost myself in the backseat of a stranger’s car.

This height I reached through substances,
I was told to avoid.
Yet using them to comfort me,
To fill the empty void.
On the phone seeking empathy for strangers,
Yet finding instead a treasure trove of dangers.

Depression isn’t skin deep,
We are all waiting for something more.
More than the shadow that looms overheard,
More than this feeling that ties us to our bed.
More than snapchats,
The mess in our flat.
More than feeling hopeless,
Thinking maybe we should hope less.

People tell me that I’m fine,
It’s all in my head.
Yet sooner or later they will see,
The happy me is dead.
People tell me that you’re fine,
Yet inside you are dying,
Of an illness they refuse to see,
All because of what is said,
About seeing to believe.

A chemical imbalance has somehow unbalanced my feelings towards art,
This meadow of colour,
Was a thing to be admired,
But now a dying flower represents my heart.
A small mistake I used to see as a trip, a mistake, a fall.
Yet now a mistake make makes me question,
Am I good at anything at all?

Because Depression isn’t skin deep,
Our hearts are on the floor.
Before we face our final sleep,
We must find something more.
Depression isn’t skin deep,
Something we can ignore.
We’re chasing happiness,
Like lost sheep.
No this depression goes right to the core