A/N: As the daughter of a woman who has suffered from depression for years now, I'd just like to make it clear that this poem isn't directed at those with a mental illness. (As we all know, telling a person with depression to feel better is like telling a person with cancer to cure themselves.) It is, however, directed at certain "friends" of mine who seem to enjoy giving depression a bad name.

why, these days you're nobody,
if your life isn't just one long sad story.

don't worry if you're white, middle class, sheltered,
these are only minor setbacks –
depression is within everybody's reach!

it's easy enough.
ignore the fact
that most of the world's population can only dream about
having food on the table, a roof over their heads.
think they have time for poetry?

so, go ahead, whine about how no one understands you,
scribble down those poems about how the darkness envelops you,
compensate for your lack of experience
with some clichéd metaphor about pain and tears,
another "cryptic" reference to knives, and –
wham! you're unique, special, different!

(sad thing is, you always were.)