Dear Therapist

Does the smoke of depression
Run all over through my nerves ?
Is it okay that I'm not killing myself
Just because of drugs?

Thoughts curl inside my brain
Still i hope to survive again
Death isn't just paracetamol overdose
It's waking up whole night
With your eyes closed

Hours of noise
My head is loud
Feeling alone in a room
Full of crowd

People look at me like pebbles on street
Ashed of cigar fall all over me
Ghost of flashbacks
Won't let me sleep
Sometimes i find it hard
To breathe

Death isn't just
getting shot with bullet
It's living with a mind
which is already dead

Dear therapist
You read all books
Do you know how horrifying
Does depression look ?

Two shots of whisky on downtown bar
NY traffic, alone in car
Out of the city , away from the friends
Nothing could take me back again