I feel as I died when spring began,
the sun tries to fix my soul in vain
morning routine every day is the same
to the previuos day, I say.
sadness is not as good as they write
in their books 'bout shades of white
no one hears pain in my heart every night
similar to the previous pain.
what's wrong with me, why did I fall so deep
to the depression's toxic pit
some sort of poisonous harmful weed
raised in my mind, I have to spit
it.