I'd still write it

Even if you'd never read it, I'd still write it. Writing it out is just a way to save it from exiting out of my poor mouth.  Writing for me is my savior, keeping me from feeling unkind.  It gets bottled up, it may start boiling, spewing out all over the place burning everything that stands in it's way.  

To write for me is like setting a bottled up note out to sea.  Doesn't matter what's written on it just as long as its set free.  Doesn't matter that anyone reads it as long as its set free. 

It doesn't cure the depression, it doesn't cure the unlearned lessons.

It does make it bearable to live in this hell.  The hell of my heart, the hell that's in my mind, the hell that creeps up on me while I was doing just fine.  Somedays I ask myself, why do I have to be this way? Why does the pain have to creep in and try to always stay.  It'll pick a room in my head, unpack all its things and spend hours telling me I'm insane that I am not brave, that I will crash and burn.  That I'm not worth everything I work so hard to earn.

I'm human so they say.  I feel more than that most days. You may not understand it and I can't even begin to explain.  Is that why my brain is broken? Is that why I see all the things they don't say? Is that how I know what the bodies resonate.  Why I can feel what you feel? As if it was my own, I can feel it right down to my very bones.  I know how you feel about me, how my energy effects your energy.  

How can I not feel depressed when I am absorbing all of the worlds distress?