The picture frame

I look at the window,
its beautiful; doesn't seem real
the room is dark covered with clouds
but out there its light and warm
this nightmare will never end
running emotions; it stays a trend
the tears they come at the end of winter
the cutting in the spring
depression is almost all year round,
but its ok, its my life,
no one sees the pain under my shirt,
or on my legs hidden by cloth,
my feet are running, but time is standing still
I keep looking out the window,
and I wonder,
What if its just a picture in a beautiful frame?