The Death of Depression
Is not the death of one’s own soul so sad?
I tend to disagree; for now I’m free,
I do not run from fears like I once had.
There used to be an aching heart in me
That took any and all its chances to bleed
As my long days and nights were constant hell.
But as of now pain is a dying breed.
(It did not feel so good to be unwell.)
And what a struggle it has been to heal
My hear and soul and mind from the past scars
When others simply said it was not real.
(To them I merely murmured ‘AU REVOIR!’)
I hope you see the strength and grace that grows
From dried-up streams where pain no longer flows.