My problems seem so petty

They make me spoiled and weak

Maybe that’s depression that’s talking

Or maybe it’s something else

I feel bad for telling my parents

I feel bad for telling my therapist

All that wasted money

because I can’t handle reality

I’m scared to confide in others

Scared they’ll tell confide it to someone else

I don’t want to be an object of pity

I hardly have it for myself

I want to be done with my trauma

Cut the tears, cut the drama

I want to be happy with my future

To cope as best as I can