A Functioning depressive I hear my Doctor say,
And during lonesome moments; I wonder: how did I get that way.
I’m paid ok, busy, popular and kind,
But it’s only a “happy act”, that creeps easy from my mind.
My Endorphins should be rewarded with an Oscar or a Bafta,
My cry for help a siren, not bellowed from any rafter.
The smallest thing can trigger me, I’m irrational in my anger,
I examine wrists and speeding cars, I know I am in danger.