Depression Poem by chris schwartz

Maybe death has been my passion in life.
For the insufferable,
Only the hope of something
Greater beyond
Exists.
Is it wrong to be tired?
Is it to be judged in life
To close your eyes
To a world
Where only heartache
Beats to the same music
Of what your soul
Has tried to escape from.
I have lived my life
With curtains drawn
Tightly,
Letting the light shine in
Only on occasion
After the wildfires
Have burned
All I knew and loved
To the ground.
Yet the newborn ferns
Of life,
Make me open my eyes
With wonder,
I see the nourishing black dirt
They are under,
I water them
With my tears.
Oh, how I would
Like to grow with them!
If it weren't for my fears.
My wheels have turned
So fast, so often,
That they are in need
Of major repair.
No one can fix them but me.
But I am too tired.
The wheels of depression
Beat down the innocent
With hurt that feels like
A horse without shoes
On a cement road
Trudging forward
In pain,
And pulling the wagon
Hoping to land and to rest
Somewhere that's cozy.