Does she believe in a half-built home?
Or its hole in the ground?
I’ve taken the roam
A wide roof I claim to my own
And how much I miss the walls
The studs that creak and waver
To savor the freedom of the breeze.
Life plays on the palm fronds
Not much hope can hang on either.

Dark and dreary
So depressed
My mind in shambles
My room a mess

I need to get
This through my head
But I'm just lying
On my bed

No energy
Or will to live
I have nothing
Left to give

So please,
don't leave me here
Please

A pain
Inside
That covers
The light,
Blinds it;
Fills
The room-
Suffocates it.
This isn’t just
Pain;
This is
Darkness,
Blackness.
This is
Death:
The very
Essence
Of the
End of
Life.
The lack of
Dreams, the
Absence of
Hope, the
Reality of
No tomorrow,
No way to
Be free:
This
Is
Death.
This
Is
*Depression.