I had a friend since I was five.
But, they didn't make my life better,
They cover me like a thick wool sweater.
The wool is thoughts of how I should die.
They follow me,
As if they're a lost dog.
They leave me in a dreadful fog,
Painfully unhappy.
Their name is Depression.
They show up in awkward ways.
Sometimes, I feel ill for days.
They leave stimming in suppression.
YOU ARE READING
The Color Teal
PoetryThese poems are a form of self expression. Not for fame, or followers. Some words tell stories without verbal communication.
