If depression is one son of a bitch,

Then serotonin is a hell of a drug,

If purging and cutting is my way to cope

And I am beginning to recover,

Shouldn't I heed some hope?

I'm happy and I'm confident, but really, deep inside,

Depression whispers to the drug that it should no longer abide.

I no longer want to dig this hole, but to my very appall

There is always something there to remind me,

That I am not happy at all.

My brain suggests more serotonin, my mind prefers more life

I clean my face and flush the disgrace,

Wipe blood off of the knife.

I know that there is a way out,

As others have done before.

Maybe one day I can awake,

Natural jubilance in my core.