Once a soul there was,
Depressed, unbeknownst the cause.
Those days, those memories bright,
Contaminated with regret, remorse and fright.

With agony, with heartbreak, the poor soul cried,
In depression, in self-loathing, its heart had dried.
"What exactly is depression?" my naïve self had to ask.
The soul seemed to hide the suffering under a pretentious mask.

"When friends, when family betray," he said
"For money, for fame, life becomes a game.
When selfishness annihilates every foundation laid,
It crumbles and topples the belief you gained."

"No longer for success you find yourself vying,
For too tired of life you are, but too scared of dying.
A pointless existence gets you detached,
The idea of happiness appearing too farfetched."

"With failures aplenty and satisfaction seldom,
You find fate swinging like a wretched pendulum.
Life seems miserable, you are void of passion,
And that - my friend, is the definition of depression."

I heard that day what I could never feel,
The voice of defeat, of lack of zeal.
Obnoxious was my narcissism before,
Having ignored his plight and heartache galore.

I realized then there must be so many like him,
Ending their lives, acting on a whim.