The Hands of Depression

There is some kind of hidden grace
that hides behind the face of depression.
Pushing any times of happiness far from my mind.
Pulling to me the cold fog of reality.
Too old to be held by the people who are supposed to love you.
Too young to really belong.
The broken pieces of the puzzle crash to the floor,
my head says to piece them together
but my body is too attached to the grief.
I feel like a puppet, strung up and strung out
on all the things I was told about life.
The only one who holds me here is the monster of depression.
The only one who makes sense to me.
The only one who makes me realize
death is one part of life that does not branch off in a thousand directions.
Either you step on the platform and enter the train of death, or you live, and the confusion continues to buzz
around the voices of the business men.
The manic stages of life have taken me this far.
I can't explain the grip the hands of depression has on me.
I can't believe anyone will help.
So now, I stand with a decision in my own filthy hands.
Do I let go?

This is just what I feel right now, I wrote everything that came into my mind. The work of a unraveling tragedy must start somewhere.