Sadness does not come in the form of rainstorms

Here to kiss away the tears off of one's face

It is not the color of the blackest night

Where wanderers lose sight of their paths

No heavy heart causes wistful sighs

As romanticism is asked for an opinion on sorrow

Depression is not poetic

No one spins tales about the collapse of the soul

The ultimate despair is not a kind of sadness at all

It is a kind of agony

The soul does indeed collapse

Shattering like glass against the only road ever known

They claw their way back under the skin

Where they can bleed and burn a person from the inside out

Blood in the water draws sharks

Anguish in the body draws monsters

A ragged hollowness is left in the place of the soul

Inviting all kinds of maladies to come and take residence

And indeed they do appear

Slithering down your back and filling up your throat

Burying claws made of your own mangled soul into your shoulders

In an attempt to devour those last bits of light and life

The varying shades of the night do not provide relief

But nightshade can

Even when the sun is out there is no light to see by

Reality slips into the void

Reason abates

And you can't help but wonder why

Why the torment refuses to cease

Why you put up with it at all

Such is depression

A state where a person drowns in a frenzy of apathy

For some reason or another we turn to face our demons

Only to find our face staring back

Our hurt balled up in our fists

Our despair in our eyes

Our screams in our voices

Suddenly we do not fear those parts of ourselves so much

So we sit ourselves down for tea for the first time

To talk about the pain in the past and the possibilities in the future

There are days where we do not understand one another

When the hurt comes back

But those days occur less frequently as time goes on

Sunlight does more than make nightshade grow

Our demons do not have to be eliminated

But reconciled