What my depression looks like: It is the Jabberwocky.
It rears its ugly head when you least expect. It fights to tear your soul apart and spit it into the flame. Your passion is dulled like an unsharpened knife, but it cuts you piece by piece. You hold your head high but your shoulders slouch. You only have energy to stay on the couch. Tears bottled up inside, but you don’t have the strength to cry your heart out or even stay awake. Hurt so bad, it aches; life so fragile, it breaks. All your past mistakes conglomerate into one big hate: of yourself. Please don’t let this be my fate. I only want to be great again. A dragon lies at the foot of my bed, laying wait until I feel good again, only to find that day won’t come: is this the end?