Depression.

Thirty Four.

I knew a boy who liked to draw,
He drew pictures that nobody saw.
He was most artistic late at night,
In the bathroom out of sight.
He kept a secret that nobody knew,
He didn't tell a soul and his gallery grew.
His drawings were different, no paper or pen,
But needed a bandage now and again.
We stood by the river under the stars,
He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his scars.
He felt embarrassed and looked down at his shoe.
Then I rolled up my sleeve and whispered I draw too.