The Poetry in Depression

Ground

The Ground is  nice  I guess, 

I'm not  usually one to obsess 

I hear its quiet and still.

They cant hear you and you cant hear them.

As if  your  body could move lifeless and dead.

Shatters of glass on the floor the same daggers I used to bleed,

 to make my skin completely deceased.

When I looked in the mirror I wanted to punch it so bad,

Because when I saw my repulsive face it made me so mad

Sometimes  I don't know how the world can stand me.

 They say I'm bright and kind and sweet but I never see that because all I ever see is defeat

  I loath the sight of my body,

 the color of my eyes,

 even my finger tips,

  I'm just so tiered of this.

 People ask if I'm okay, I say yes 

But on the inside I'm screaming for my own death.

 The ground is nice I guess,

 I'm not usually one to obsess.

 But when you feel so low and there is nowhere left to go,

 but the stream of blood that is asking to be released from its dam.

 You cant help but follow the demand. 

But when you let it flow it only lasts for so long.

 But you can help but ask why can i fantasize of being gone,

 because there is nothing left around but the thoughts of the ground