The clock strikes twelve,
And the wind howls outside.
You hold your head in your hands,
And try desperately not to cry.
For no-one can know about your loneliness,
No-one can know that you're really a mess.
Sometimes, you drop the act,
You can't be bothered, you're tired.
Concerned faces turn to you,
And your reply is always the same line,
"I'm fine."
The days go on,
Becoming colder and darker,
Others speak of good news, friendship and heart ache.
But you can speak of none of that,
In the life you've faked.
You're barely breathing anymore,
Let alone letting anyone inside your head.
Your reflection taunts you as you walk past the mirror,
You're horrible, distasteful, it can't get better.
You're digging your own grave,
A ten foot deep hole,
To be filled with gravel,
And make people forget you.
The clock strikes one,
And you hear the creak of the door.
You leap under the covers,
And shut your eyes while a head looks in.
They look on lovingly, at your so-called innocent face,
If they knew about you,
They'd think you a disgrace.
Many nights of insomnia and hatred followed,
You screamed into pillows, your face became hollow.
People say depression isn't an illness,
But how could they say that when you're crashing to the ground?
Muscles are weak, too tired to be used,
Waking up is a tragedy, death might be better.
But you get up each day and plaster a smile on your face,
Ignoring others concern about your weight and you race,
To the school grounds where people fear to bother you,
A vacant stare and a look of despair is cast on you.
You fall into the arms of a stranger and they hold you tightly,
They lead you away from the crowd and sit you down.
You try to explain yourself but the words don't come out,
The person looks sympathetic and displays a knowing look,
Whilst your expression is a mix of hate and agression.
The stranger looks into your eyes, and sees no light or a spark.
They raise their hand for a teacher, and whisper, "Depression."
