Beasts of Depression

Ink for blood Black and dripping From paper-thin skin Scars shaped vaugely Like the characters of another tongue One unknown to any race Lost to even their own kind Teeth like daggers That gnash and grind Closing around empty air Searching for a meal but finding nothing And howling in anger At the fact they never will For they feed off misery Absorb it Live it Breathe it But the ill-being of others Is hardly nutritious Confined to the shadows They dare not tread in the glorious light of joy For it burns like the fire of a thousand suns Instead they wait for night to come Then they attack Feeding first off the weak Then beating at the minds of the strong Tearing down the walls so carefully built To hide the sorrow But are we hiding our woes from the beasts of Depression, or from our own minds?