I write of depression,
Sadness and death,

Some of you laugh,
While others seek me help.

But I need not either,
For my pain is mine.

The pain is a burden,
But it remains behind my eyes.

Behind the sweet little girl,
Who's never done anything wrong,

Lies a monster,
down a hall that is not that long.

It releases itself,
In many forms,

Some through blood,
Others through scorn,

Either way,
I wish to have never been born.