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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

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