A poem about mental health and depression

Each day under the pouring rain

Same and old, feet pressing against the wet concrete

Boots filled with liquid and tilting your head down

And yet here you are,

An imposter to the people around you

In the fiery streets,

The rain might as well be burning concrete,

Piercing your toes and your raging heart

That is awaiting autumn to come.

Only then, wind will carry away your troubles

Like ash and dust of a lost soul in the wind

That we breathe in everyday

Unaware that the precious air we breathe

Is made of lost souls and lost lives

Awaiting your presence too

Each birthday comes faster as you go through more birthdays

And suddenly the song goes dim.

The world goes quiet.

The vision of the rim of your eyes goes numb.

Because you know.

Any birthday could be your last.

birthday cakes have candles,

And so do funerals.

But why does that bother you,

Why does each step have its own aching scream and under the harsh cold wind your feet stay as warm as ever.

Just enough to continue walking.

And make your way home?