No.
I’m really not okay.
Not right now, maybe,
But I know I will be someday.

At least,
That’s what my shrink says.
So that’s what I’m telling you.
I hope to God that guy is right…

If not,
And this pain lasts forever,
I don’t think I could survive it.
If the pain won’t kill me,

I might.
But please, don’t go pitying me.
Your pity will only make me pity myself,
Adding more fuel to my emotional pyre.

Maybe,
Someday, the flames will die,
And leave only my ashes to remain,
Waiting for the next strong wind.

Or,
Maybe I’m made of something stronger;
Something resilient that doesn’t burn,
But can melt down and be reused…

Molded?
Shaped into something more beautiful,
And perhaps more useful as well,
Than I have ever been before.

But…
I feel anything but beautiful;
Anything by resilient;
The polar opposite of useful:

Shit.
A large, muddy pile of human waste;
The body’s useless, ejected
Leftovers, stripped of all nutrients, and

Flushed,
Down a swirling, drowning vortex,
With too much toilet paper.
Absolutely anything but beautiful.

Of course,
This is only how I feel,
Which means Descartes must be wrong;
As if cognition proved existence!

Revision:
I feel, therefore I am;
I feel like shit, so I am shit.
No molding flames for me.

So,
What’s the point for me, then?
Shit, after all, has no destiny.
No, don’t tell me that;

I know.
“I’m not shit,” right?
That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?
You were going to reassure me?

Don’t.
You don’t even know me.
Yes, we’ve been friends for years,
But you don’t know me

Inside.
You don’t know my horrible thoughts.
You don’t see me in my darkest hours.
You don’t hear me cry for freedom…

For death.
You have absolutely no clue.
Like I said: you don’t know me at all.
You know only what I show you.

Yes,
I know I’m a hypocrite.
I’m too good at acting for you to see
And give me the help I need…

Help!
I don’t want to be like this!
You think this is easy? You try!
Step into my shoes for one day,

And see!
I can’t live like this anymore!
It’s all too much… too much…
I wish I could just lie down, close my eyes,

And die…
But I’m scared of what would come after.
I’m scared of where I might go,
If there’s anywhere to go after death…

Hell?
But isn’t this hell already?
So what do I have to lose?
I could trade one hell for another,

Right?
The other hell might even be better than this one.
I could adapt to survive it, either way.
But then… does that mean I could survive…

Here?
In this life of pain and betrayal,
And tortuous thoughts night after night?
Maybe I really could do it…

Live…
What, it’s noon already?
Time flies fast when you dream of release.
Excuse me, I need to take my medicine.

What?
You think I’m weak because I need drugs?
Because I need these happy pills?
You’ve done it again.

Idiot.

You have no clue what I’m really like.
You don’t know how hard it was
For me to go to some stranger for these.
I had to tell that guy absolutely everything,
Share all of my morbid thoughts,
All of my suicidal fantasies,
And then have him tell me what I already knew:
I’m suffering from depression.
Not that short-term crap people complain about;
The real, horrible, medical one.
The one that I need help for,
Even if it means spilling my guts to some guy
I’ve never met before in my life.
These pills keep me rational.
They make me normal, the way I would be
If I didn’t have this stupid depression.
So look at me now and tell me:
If I can stand to tell a random stranger
My deepest darkest secrets…
If I can survive the horrors of my own mind…
Am I really that weak?

So... please tell me what you think. I don't attempt poetry very often, so I'm somewhat insecure about this one.

And one more time, for the idiots: I AM NOT SUICIDAL WHEN I AM ON MY MEDS; IT IS ONLY OFF MY ANTI-DEPRESSANTS THAT I START TO THINK THIS WAY, WHICH IS NOT VERY OFTEN. I AM GOING TO A COUNSELOR AND A PSYCHIATRIST, SO IF YOU READ THIS THEN PLEASE DO NOT COMMENT TELLING ME TO GET HELP.