I've been depressed for like a few weeks now
for the first time in years
i thought it was the over consumption of fears
i thought it was the secret of a friend I've known for years

but it's the sister who's too shallow to read between the lines
while i'm writing this poem
she is saying how bitter i am

it's the brother who won't listen to me
i warned him
the day he almost hit my friends foot with the car
he told me to remember my place

it's the father that always thinks he's right
he tells me all the things that would be better for me
but doesn't care about me going to the doctor
for a wound that's been hurting for years
but as long as i'm doing something for the church
because to him
i have to do more than
choir
dance
praise and worship
and it has to be in the big church

it's the mom
that didn't notice
when i became bulimic
didn't notice when my stomach was cringing with pain

but the one thing i don't know
why am i not suicidal?
i hate that i have something to live for

i hate that i want people everywhere to see
they're better than their memories
they're better than their pain
better than their misury

i hate that i have a reason to live
because that means i have to live with the following facts:
someone is sexually assaulted every 2 minutes
america feeds four countries
while they still have homeless people here
blacks are the majority of the drop out rate

and until the people like me
who remember these things
decide to fight there
i have to live with depression
*to show them i care