The Habbit

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Depression Poems

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My depression,

to much for surpression.

So to which I form,

a new habbit is born.

Habbit so fierce,

my skin I pierce.

The edge of the blade,

so chipped and dull.

Dragging it across my skin,

blood so little.

A drop I see,

the greater the urge.

I can't stop,


Habbit formed,

the day of love.

I try to forget,

I cut,

I cry,

till the day I die.


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