If I was lost in the forest
In the middle of the night
Would I build myself a fire
Or would I die of fright?
Would I need to be rescued?
Or would I be brave?
Brave enough to find shelter from the wind and the rain?
Would I think to wait for the light to guide my way?
Or would I think “Fuck it”
“I’ll pick my skin today”?
You see, my forest is my depression
A crowded, over run jungle
Of branches, leaves and ditches
Where I trip and I stumble
So, how comes in a forest I can see the wood from the trees,
but in my mind I’ve twisted my ankle and I’m being stung by bees?
Written by Natasha Bailie