There is always a darkness we agree to hide.
A terrible, small voice from deep inside.
Calling the suicide to leave the ledge.
Begging for blood on a sharp knife’s edge.
It robs the notes from the bird that sings.
It steals the strain from the violin’s strings.
If you’re brilliant and sensitive and full of expression,
Luck would have it, you’re prone to depression.
We ignore the urging or we simply comply.
But we never solve the complexity of why.
One day, my darling, you shall find your smile.
Until then, keep looking, it may take a while.