Alone she sits in a crowded room,
Her screams for help at full volume.
But no one turns; no one glances
In her direction, their gaze just passes
Am I real? Do I even matter?
The voices, they chatter
In her head; and in her heart,
The demons tear her apart.
She struggles and fights,
But these demons, they bite
And deposit their poisons
Into all kinds of good persons
Though her intentions are noble,
Her struggle is futile.
And still, no one notices
Her pain out of focus.
For it is painful to witness,
This whole depression business.
Her pleas for help simmer down to a whisper;
Could that crowded room have been any dimmer?
© Tara Jenkinson 2017