I write for you. ~ 5 August 2013


When we are young

we learn

that people who cut

are wrong,

 are different,

maybe even frightening.

That depression is


We do not learn

the ways to break free and escape

when depression comes

knocking at our door.

So I sat,

On the edge of my bed

In Pain,

On the edge of my bed

In Tears, 

And my hand drifted towards

The Razor.

It was me versus the World,

and the World was winning. 

But as my hand fell hopelessly to my side

It landed on a weapon,

A Pen.

Everytime the tip of the pen

hits the page, 

Emotions appear in Rhymes and Rhythems,

and all of a sudden the world makes sense,

and all of a sudden I am not standing alone. 

I began to advance,

Tackling every obsticle that entered my path,

But my fight was always


I was unable to prevent

problems from striking,

Again and Again,

They kept coming.

I was becoming to tired to fight

Day after wretched day. 

But then I left the home I knew

And entered another world of people,


We spoke the same language,

our language.

We were all on another page,

our page.

They read words no one else had,

My words. 

And they didn't judge me as I had feared,

they Smiled. 

And asked for a copy of their own

that they could read

on days they felt the same way.

And from the moment that I entered that world on,

I write for


I write for


I write so we can all


I write so we can all


I write so we don't have to pick up

The Dreaded Razor. 




Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741