You speak about depression,as if it's a name attached to a face.As if it's an open bared soul,a visible heart on a sleeve,an ever present tear on a cheek.
You speak about depression as if it has a name.As if it's personality is fixed,as if it can be seen instead of felt and as if it were chosen,when instead it chooses.
You speak about depression as if you have met it,as if it resides in each person the same,as if it has the absolute inability to laugh and smile.
You speak about depression as if it were a singular cell.
It's not.
Depression isn't the unheard sadness,but the looming mockery of dissatisfaction after each laugh.It's the inability to feel at peace.It's late nights but happy mornings.It's breathing in,and not wanting to let the air go.
Depression is feeling as if you're okay but you're not.Wanting to cry,but not being able to.It's emptiness.Listlessness.Nothingness.
Depression is the joker,the happy kid,the musical kid,the sporty one,the smart one.
Depression doesn't age,it isn't limited and it's almost always,always just under the surface.Waiting to show it's face.
YOU ARE READING
Paper Heart Poetry
PoetryThey don't prepare you for these feelings when you're a kid. ●●● Pain in the shape of words because human emotion is a powerful source of inspiration. Revel in the contradictions. Swim in the salty depths of grief. Climb the mountains of sorrow. Re...
