Why must I feel this way,
Even when things are good?
Not sure what to say,
Or if I’m understood.

The sun is out,
The air is warm,
And I want to shout,
From Depression's scorn.

Uncertainty is now my only certainty,
And all I want is to get up and flee.
Before another shooting spree.

The bills are paid,
And my job is saved,
But still I stand,
On my own two hands.

Was it the years of abuse?
Was it the years of failure?
Or are those an excuse,
To feel like a loser?

Things are looking up,
My eyes are staring down.
Half empty is my cup,
And I drink with a frown.

But why?

Even when it’s good,
It’s never good enough.
I’ve just never understood.
Do I enjoy life being rough?

© Dang That's Good