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Depression is a choice, my dear, And happiness the same You choose this illness, don’t you? What a tragic little game. Depression is an option, love Just get up out of bed Take your tears and worries And just smile now instead. Depression is a choice, you see, And so is suicide. Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear Enjoy this perfect ride. Get over your own standards Of what everyone should be. Just smile for once, and maybe You’ll be living perfectly. ... But... Depression is an illness That we feel so deep within. Why would anybody choose To write poetry on their skin? Unless there lies a reason, dear, I would not choo

I'm running. I can't feel my body, but I know I'm running. Trees are flashing by, then gravestones. Finally, I reach the end of the graveyard, jump over the gate. My knees and hands are bleeding, but the adrenalyn stops the pain. Running. Don't concentrate on anything but running. I know he'll catch me. He's faster than me. But I don't stop. I have to try. He mustn't reach me. Suddenly, I can't see my way anymore. Tears are covering my sight. Why? My feet leave the ground and the moment my knees hit the floor I give up. He's coming. Again. This time, he won't just hit me. He will kill me. Slowly, I turn around, blink my tears away