Depression is gradual,
It doesn't start off looking in the mirror and thinking 'I hate myself'
It's more like every day you get worse and worse until eventually you realize how many times a day you fake a laugh,
It's the times you wanted to curl up into a ball but instead you fake a smile and act normal.

Depression is not self harm,
It isn't defined by the number of scars you have or how deep they are,
It isn't the nights spent crying or how your home life is,
It's feeling tired all the time and having this hole in your chest that no amount of fake smiles can fill.
It's nights spent staring at a wall or constantly sleeping because nothing is worth doing.

Depression is not romantic,
It can't be cured with a few hugs and I love you's,
It isn't scars to be kissed or bruises to be caressed,
It's nights spent alone even when there are people beside you,
It's emptiness and realizing that all of those things you used to do, that you used to revel in, aren't worth it anymore.

Depression is real,
It isn't wanting attention or someone to tell you everything will be fine,
It isn't wearing short sleeves so people notice your scars or telling everyone how sad you are,
It is looking at the casket of one of your friends because we didn't notice it, because no one saw the signs,
It's a noose around your neck 24/7 because that's all you can think about,
It's emptiness and loneliness,
It's sleepless nights but sleep filled days,
It is the worst feeling in the world,
Depression is real and depression kills

Color your darkness
embed your glistening gloss
the best secrets
are those untold
a thief with a house key
unheard words
are those desired most
so color your darkness
a black rainbow
is still a rainbow
they may not see the beauty
But that's what makes it yours

The euphoric parallax, the vast.
The concealed, the intangible known.
The indifferent future, the decaying past.
The inconsistent, looping drone.
The lengths of our splendid slumber.
With both laugh and loathe entwined.
Bears witness to the wonders
Of our consciousness - sublime.
The falling from a heightened frightful.
The embarrassment of youth.
The promise of danger - delightful.
And the grand purpose - aloof.

All is vivid. All is bright.
All the colour stains the light.
All things hazy. All things merge.
All connected. All converge.
In the early, in the old.
In the fresh and the fatigued.
In the clear and the controlled.
In the apt and obsolete.
Where days come to end their lives.
To bask in the blurred glow.
To steer the sky behind our eyes.
And allow our liquid thoughts the flow.

Time's waste - the wondrous tragedy.
Mourned hour after hour.
The inescapable catastrophe.
The sad, slow devour.
Sight, to the dull of eyes.
Stability, in the earthless turn.
Tranquility, in every sigh.
Truth, in what we're yet to learn.
Here you hear the happiness.
And the sadness of the stars.
They share a song - synonymous.
They sing to us from afar.

Stumbling through the shapeless silence.
Merging with the mangled mess.
Tampering with the truly timeless.
Engulfed in what we can't caress.
The vague and subtle sightings.
Through the chaos of your plan.
Into the long wait for nothing.
Which kills the heart of man.
In the all encompassing loom.
Where you can finally be alone.
Your mind - a fragile bloom.
And the void, your only throne.

A state of elasticity.
A transparent mirrored wealth.
The nook of all necessity.
An eternal nocturnal self.
Where does this calm originate
That seems so unprepared?
Who truly can appreciate
The blankness of its stare?
Imagination meets mere memory.
Rearranging what we think we know.
Distorting what we want to see.
Inspiring how we hope to grow.

Now see the minds that wander.
With the twisting of the trees.
With the certainty of thunder.
And the warm, empty breeze.
We have to leave, we have to go.
Back to where we loathe but know.
We want to breathe, we want to glow.
We want the reap but not the sow.
The change that you so fear.
Roams the halls of this distortion.
It pauses, sways and veers.
In ceaseless, cruel contortions.

There is something that here dwells.
Something small. Something real.
In our greetings and farewells.
In all we see, hear and feel.
It writes itself on our faces.
It penetrates into our sleep.
And although we can escape it.
Into our subtleties it seeps.
On a buoyant float of black.
The black of vacant oceans.
It throws what we still lack.
Into monstrous swirling motions.

From the canvas of infinite infancy.
With broken wisdom blushed.
Forgotten almost instantly.
In your dazed, waking rush.
To a mountainous climb of morning.
We share the sun of skies.
For it wears the warming.
And the opening of eyes.
But how fine the line is drawn.
Between the sleeping and the aware.
Between the smiles and the forlorn.
Between the dream and the nightmare.

The tranquil light
In the quiet night
Allows me to escape
To take a break
The silhouette of the waning moon
Bring a sense of peace
To this wacked out world
Through the eyes
of a child to old for her age
A broken girl
Who stays unspoken
The silent girl
She has her dreams
She looks guidance
Her world is timeless
The night whispers to her
The illusion of dealing
with all her emotions
Leads to commotion
Her desperate devotion
To a night who never loved her back.