To you, mom, I think depression is not understanding.

It’s not hearing me when I cry silently at dinner, but instead, reprimanding.

Me? It’s not my fault, see, I hold back my breaths, I keep it in

I can’t let out my fears because it’ll be a breath of pain

It’ll extinguish my flame.

My flame of hope will be my wick of defeat.

That last straw will make my life impossible to complete.

I imagine your mind being a field of confusion, and a sky of questions.

I imagine not only frustration... defeat... and hurt,

but also, mom, I catch a glimpse of hope.

Hope is there, mom. I see it. I see it

in your eyes, in your questions, in your hands.

I see it in your hands, mom, because I know it keeps


your heart, but you grab that hope and bring it back.

To you, mom, depression is hope that’s taking a


vacation to a land of

Who Knows Where.


You place my pain in a “hard to reach place”

but really its just in the hole of your shower door so you can pick it up

and hand it to me

delicately each time I ask.


Depression for you is watching the stubble appear upon my skin

as the embarrassment and fear grows within.

I mean I’m not in the mood to hurt, but you think that I am.

I’m stuck in my thoughts,

stuck in my room and my feelings are in knots.

You see me coming; I’m just a step away; You think... why is she here?



Well, for me, depression is not being able to see a future. So

maybe I’m here because I finally see time going by.

Maybe I’m here because I finally see light.

Maybe it’s me forgetting that although my happiness is that

tiny flame

on the dinner table, my sorrow is a


Maybe it’s me realizing that no matter what, that tiny flame will always make light.

So give me the weapon, Mom. Because that’s not what it is.


It’s just a tool to shave away the past, and a sharp edge to rub against my skin, and a blade to cut through…


And there it goes.

I blew out my last flame of hope after devouring that

delicious dish of gourmet over-analysis

and staring at the empty plate of "personality paralysis”

Oh, Mom, PLEASE,

Mom, please,

please wash the dishes tonight.


But to me,

depression is a massive dinner table clear of any food because I don’t want to feel full.

I don’t want to feel anything at all so I don’t bring life to my day.

Depression is when each truth is just a confession.

Nothing is worth being proud of, because accomplishments? Those are so pre-depression.

No, instead, I take life out.

I let my cross country career sprint away as I let it go free.

I watch it dance away while at the same time, letting my academics go astray.

And maybe you know that, mom.

Maybe you see that in me, in my report card, in my speed.

But, then there’s that part of my soul that we can’t control..

I see that in me, no, out of me cause its not my own.


Mom, since the depression stopped by, It seems like we are all treating him as a guest

which is making it





Mom, I want to let it go but depression is homeless.

I think that if he left, he’d be stripped of his soul,

and he would barely know

where to go so

he would sink and drown in the shallow… waters… of the world, but no.


Depression is so powerful that he’d resurrect and find another little girl,

a cute one,

13 years old,

13 days until her soul’s execution.


But that’s not fair to her, mom, so we need to defeat it.

It’s not about me, it’s about my head

and how to relieve it.


So now, I’m on a quest. This motivation is a gift, so don’t let it slip away, and if the dark depression comes back, throw it off a cliff because now you got me going. Now I’m ready to slay, and ready to bruise. I’m going to find the one who created this news, get a good grasp, and threaten to hurt her. I’ll remind her that she’s a contender. And so am I. I’ll ask, and question, about that day in March, I’ll strangle the words out until she can’t remember. I’d fight, I’d cry, I’d scheme till I’d die, but dying isn’t an option anymore. And that’s not necessarily a good thing for someone who's been caught in this war. And look at me now.


I’m locked up in this loop of depression and anxiety.

This relentless loop never ends,

and when you think it does, it’s just on pause,

because before you know it,

you’ll be back in it’s arms,

following it’s laws,

forgetting how a smile tastes and

knowing how your bed smells

because you can't leave it.



is a monster.

Let’s seize it, and when it say’s it’s your friend, don’t believe it.

Let me tell you what depression really is.

Depression is a poem with no ending, no conclusion, just confusion. It’s a poem with the prompt of “What is depression?” and the answer: “Good question.”

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world


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