This Is It... Poem by justine spohn

Depression is when you can't sleep and you get so bored looking at your roof, that you spend week’s nights contemplating what to do with it only to find that you wouldn't have enough determination to do it.
Depression isn't always suicide. It’s obvious to only you. And always will be my way of life. It makes you gain weight, lose weight, not eat, eat too much. It has a feeling of death. It kills you even if you have the best things in the world.
Depression is no family, real friends or a love life. It’s the broken pieces of your heart. It’s the twisted sense of time. It’s seeing happiness everywhere you go. It’s hoping to survive and having no hope as well.
Depression isn't contemplating suicide, but wishing you were already there. It’s losing an enthusiasm for something you once loved. It’s when you hate yourself for no reason at all. It’s the hatred of your family you don’t even know.
Depression eats your insides with smile on its face. It’s a mask to wear 24/7 to hide the pain.
It’s the look in your eyes when you wake up in the morning, knowing you have to live another day.