this is the dirty truth.

21

She's tried writing songs and singing to birds,

She's tried to tell them how much she's not worth.

The birds all chirped and the song didn't have the right beat,

She cried for days because she couldn't stand to think,

She's a fucking human with no purpose

and her anxiety keeps her from talking to someone for half a second.

They tell her, "Breathe! Count and breathe!"

They say, "It will help your anxiety!"

But it builds and builds and builds and you can't help but scream,

at the girl with bags under her eyes and a soul catching dust.

She's a key that belongs to a locked door, and that key is about to rust.

She's standing in the rain wondering if depression is artsy like everyone makes it seem.

That "she" is me, and I want to know what's so goddamn pretty,

About someone not understanding their own mind and second guessing their own worth.

But all you see is a good looking girl standing in the rain with a sad face wearing a nice skirt.

You say, "Yes, this is me! Relatable!"

Come to me with your depression when you're ready to die and nothing has happened that day to make you feel so,

Sad. Or maybe I can use another word that's falsely used to define a mood? Depressed, psychotic,

Alone; or should I say artistic?