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.