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The other day I broke
My bedside radio.
So I took it apart,
And gave fixing it a go.

Faced with wires
Crossed and confused,
Hoping the black and red
Could again be fused.

My brain is like my radio,
With all the wires crossed;
“A chemical imbalance”
Causing happiness to be lost.

So if I can fix a radio,
Why can I not fix me?
How can I make music play
Yet have no dopamine?

I am not some poor child
Living in a slum;
So it riddles me with guilt
When I feel nothing but glum.

When I do tell people
that I am depressed
They think I am just upset,
So the elephant in the room looms and never prest.

But whether I grew up in a two story home,
Or one without power,
Depression lives in each of them
And it will still make me cower.

I cannot purge this poison,
That writhes through my brain.
I wish I could conceal it
But life is an open book, each chapter is pain.

Published inLoveMainOtherSorrow

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