Depression is a war, one that i’m trying my hardest to battle but still no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to fight. The words are painful, they hurt more than the ones kids at school would yell.

The words I tell myself daily, like “**** yourself” they are the echo of this world I was brought up in, they are my fathers words, the bullies, the ex boyfriends, the ex friends. Those are the words that ring in my head, as I tell myself daily how much I would be better off dead.

I look in the mirror and I can’t find anything else to say except ‘ew’ the once pretty boy I knew is now a ghost, an empty shell of someone who tried to take on the world but ran into the wall of reality, that this world isn’t perfect like it’s said to be.

I struggle some days to get out of bed, I stay awake at three am, grasping onto any happy moments I can find in this empty ******* head. I need happiness, I crave it like it’s a drug, and hell to me, it is.

My life is like a dumb game, one that I don’t want to play. I would think I was dead if it wasn’t the constant heaving of my chest as a reminder that i’m still alive.  

Depression is a war, like I said. I’m not a fighter, and one day, I’m going to be dead. Maybe not now, or even in a few years but I struggle to live. This life is hell, I have no friends, no family to care. Poetry is my only escape from here.