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Poem written by Benjamin Wiechel

"Depression"

What is life?
To me, life
Is a broken, twisted path
Bent by evil, pain,
Broken by the many
Exits and entrances.
The holes you see
Are not an illusion.
They exist as real
As the ground you stand on.
The pain, the destruction
A veritable life in themselves.
The rents in my life
Growing larger daily,
Ripped wide open
By those I love.

What is real?
What is reality?
They are what we perceive
Them to be
A notion we cling to
In the chaos of our lives.
What is real to you
May not be to me.
We each have our own
Views, our own eyes.
We see through none other
Than our own.
Sharing our experiences
Through our words and actions.
No single action
Is seen the same by
Two different people;
Yet we somehow manage
To share in life
And to smile
Once in a while,
And to enjoy a few rare
Precious moments in a
Turbulent existence.

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