we're low on self-esteem,
dreaming of nightmares,
but nightmares are our dream,
your hopes our affairs,
your fears our anthem,
and our music always louder than your scream,
our troubles more ghastly than a phantom.
painting roses black or red,
our faces more sombre than a killer,
with all our victims shed,
drinking gin with a blue caterpillar.
you see our hearts are coal,
and our hands are gold,
our knives shine brighter than our soul,
avoid our gaze or you'll get real cold,
behind our eyelids are mountains of ice,
and behind our mouths are rivers of blood,
and of this I won't tell you twice,
we'll then get drowned by the flood.
if you manage to sneak a peak at our hearts,
you'll find the maps of hell,
more dramatic than all the arts,
so you wish you'd known me well,
before you'd looked at my devils,
and all these will only worsen,
and no man will sink to the levels,
of the brain of a depressed person.

i get lost in my head and there's no way hence,
i'm like a street that's got no pavement,
stuck in a prison that's got no fence,
sometimes my mind cracks,
and i don't know my name,
my opinions are put in sacks,
and i start to play a game,
i like to call madness,
where the rules are set by cruelty,
and the prize is set by sadness,
and you'd think i'd have immunity,
seeing as i've been here before,
but when the visions come flooding in,
my screams get loud by more,
but they're silenced by the pillow i cry in,
my shakes stopped by the bed i lie in,
yet my closed eyes see in perfect colour,
and i look at my hands and they aren't my own,
i don't know where my honour has gone,
i look in the mirror and there's a stranger looking back,
then my mind freezes and all i see is black,
then sounds and feelings are in my room,
they turn my sunshine to gloom,
and it's all so real and so painful,
and i don't know when they're coming or how plentiful,
they'll be,
they could last a minute,
or maybe,
to an hour from a minute,
could it be,
my head is a maze and the only way out,
is by reminding myself of who is going to shout,
to lead me through the dark,
and who caresses the mark,
or the plural of mark,
that rests on my wrists like a shark,
waiting to bite at whoever wishes to embark,
on a quest to turn me into a lark,
and rid me of my dark,
ness.
i'm such a mess.
i wish i could be ruthless.
less insecure and useless.
because when this **** happens to me,
i become a demon,
and i need someone to lean on,
to make it all a little better.
and i won't come a trend setter,
for depressed suicidals.

The devil once asked how I knew the way in hell,
I said I don’t need a map for the darkness I know so well.
Red; under my sleeves, fills my vision and makes me faint,
My mind could have guessed at the colour of paint.
Lost not found, stolen not taken,
Forged my lies and leaves me shaken,
Calloused hands grip at my veins and tug at my heart,
Bring Guns and Roses to my place for a start.
Then listen to my curse as I recite my poem, a void,
Understand how my head is filled with red destroyed.
Read my scars like lines in a book,
To the river that flows at the end of the crook.
Pray that my truth would come out fast,
Or my body and soul could be separate at last.