I have chiseled my skin
with thousands of lines.
If anyone looked closely
they'll see a pattern,
of sadness and despair
of a child.
Why?
I ask constantly.
I can't help it anymore.
It hurts but
it doesn't
I am numb
but feel everything
I love
but push everyone away.
My heart can't take more pain,
I went through enough.
What have I gained?
The only thing I have are
stories that can be told
through my skin.
YOU ARE READING
In The Mind of Depression
PoetryA "book" full of poems, from a depressed child. These poems are just sincere words and do not (and will not) always make sense, so I antecedently apologize.
