It makes you see a person, for who they really are.
For what they think.
Moments,
Flashes from the last attack,
Flashes of the next.
Haunting, attacking, fearing.
Always scared for the next hit.
The next cut.
The next excuse to hurt.
To paint the canvased wrist with the red of blood.
You deserve it.
Need it.
Want it.
Such a beautiful picture, and it tells such a sad story.
Sickening.
A mother loving drugs, more than the child she put on the planet. One of thirteen years.
She draws ever so carefully, as to not scream out in pain, for fear of the beating warned by her "mother", for painting again.
Depression kills.
Will you be the next victim?
So! What do you guys think? Should I do more, or less?
Vote, Comment!
YOU ARE READING
Depression Poems
PoetryMe trying poetry. These come from my heart, and I've wanted to try for a while, and I think that this story could do well, or else I wouldn't have tried it. Some of these are my own thoughts about people, and some I made up on the spot.
