My Life With Depression

Drawing

I had a friend just like me.

Who had the lock but lost the key.

Trapped inside his very own head.

Unable to stop the thoughts that spread.

He cried himself to sleep each night.

Giving in without a fight.

In the bathroom at 1 am.

Drawing out the pictures from his head.

His work required no paper nor pen,

But a special tool he used again and again.

His ink was a certain red.

It stopped thoughts screaming in his head.

The art was something only he could see,

Hidden behind his rolled up sleeves.

He showed his art to me one day.

How he had been led astray.

So I rolled up my sleeves

I told him the truth.

I whispered,

"I draw too."