Depression makes good poetry.
And today, I'm no poet.
I'm soaking up the feeling of toasting skin.
Should I apply a layer of slimy protection from the cancerous rays?
No thanks, happy people don't get cancer.
Maybe that's the cure: happyness.
I feel like I'm cured.
But you know, sometimes people aren't diagnosed until it's too late.
Not realized until the brink of death that this has been spreading for months.
The depression had soaked into their skin.
They were living, breathing, and dying--
From good poetry.