Depression Poem by Marc Hernandez

One sees the world as dying light,
or as a snowy winter's night.
It's bugging you with pain and plight,
and worsening your every sight.

Churches sound their piercing cries,
as hell descends into Satan's eyes.
He buys your soul, he buys, he buys,
until your will to live dies.

Happy Memories from your past are torn,
making every angel mourn.
And as your soul is reborn,
you feel tortured by a hellish thorn.

And there he goes, they said, they said,
the floor below runs blood red.
And even though this is in your head,
you are already technically dead.