MothOfDoom31

Scars. They paint my arms like a surrealist tragedy unleashed on a canvas in shades of scarlet and tan.  They're always there, staring at me.  Reminding me of those feelings that bury themselves deep inside.  The ones I have to constantly fight off; the ones that threaten my life like a terminal disease.   That's it.  Depression is my cancer.  My curse that was placed upon me before memories could lodge themselves in my current mind.  My curse never fails at its unholy job; telling me I'm completely worthless and that I should make myself a meal of 50,000 milligrams of Prozac.  Or – it suggests – maybe carve your stupid drawings i

Friends all stand in front of me... Laughing, joking carelessly... I hide my arms so they can't see... What it is I've done to me... And though I try to hang around... They often leave me feeling lost... What will it take just to be found? How much more will my joy cost..? ('Cause I don't live, I just survive) (Among the crowd, I'm ostracized) (I can not be indemnified) (I fell too hard, I broke this time) My parents always yell at me... Like I won't get it unless they scream... But I never do know what they mean... Why do they have to smother me?! I've got my back pressed to the fences... I'm sorry that I'm such a hinderance