Young depression is,—
not feeling like I can move out of bed,
but I’ve got constant moving thoughts in my head.

It’s paranoia,—
of all those scenarios you paint out in your head,
bleeding out emotions that every tastes red.

It’s cold hanging feet,—
of the next step I’m so afraid to take,
bent out on my concerns and feeling out of shape.

It’s a sharp knife,—
thinking about how many cuts it takes to ****,
hurting yourself every day to see if you still feel.

It’s a smile,—
you show off a happiness they want to see,
a slave to the traumas that won’t let you be free.

It’s crawling in your skin,—
so reluctant to walk any further,
living up to life’s hype of jumping over another hurdle.

It’s feeling insecure,—
amongst the familiar faces in the crowd,
hangouts with friends but feeling like no-one is around.

It’s feeling lost,—
in a world full of so many others,
avoiding to be grey in a world of so many colours.

It’s all that I once was.