Why Me

Why I have to live with depression all these years,

I look at my arms and I just shed into tears.

Each scar tells a story about my life struggle,

Wishing sometimes That I had a double.

I wish when I talk to my girl that she could understand me,

And see that his pain won't let me be.

They tell me to let my hairs grow on my arms so they won't see the scars,

Just wanting to blink and winding up somewhere far.

I'm trying so hard to be happy and not letting people see my pain,

But this depression is the one I claim.

People don't understand and the rude one's stare or say that we're freaks, and don't see,

So we lay at night with a knife or razor and look up and say "why me".