They say depression is beautiful
Just an innocent kid
Shattering at the wrist
It is something to look at
With the eye of an artist
But not one who suffers
Would call it beautiful
Nor just a mere shattering of the wrist
It’s a fragmentation of self
It’s not crying for weeks
Because what would be the point
It’s falling to the ground
In the middle of the day
Your mouth ajar
Yet not making a sound
Depression is not beautiful
Nor a farce
It’s a disease of the mind
That ruins every part
