Short Poems [Book #1]

My Spilled Ink On Paper *

My eyes feel heavy---not from lack of sleep, but from the tears that constantly want to spill like ink tipped over onto paper. That is what depression feelings like. It's ink that suddenly spilled all over your once white paper. It spreads and spreads, and maybe it'll get so far, it covers the whole paper. And no matter if you pick that ink bottle up, there will be the left over ink that was spilled. Now imagine that paper was me and my happiness. What do you think happens if the whole paper is covered? Suicide. It's called giving up because you can't take the pain anymore, you're through with living this life and you want it to end. But, think back to when you picked up the ink. If only a little bit spilled, you would be alright. You can still save yourself, even with at least a bit of white left. And even if there was no white left, you can still try to clean the ink up. Yes, the paper will never be the same ever again, but you'll still have something; a life to live. You, me, a person you know, we all have a purpose of being here. We exist for a reason. That paper will heal, but it will have scars, just as a broken heart will have cracks. It will heal, you will get better, and I hope I will as well.

Just a little speech I thought of.