I speak another language, with the others of my kind.
We hold another tongue, not a single translator could find.
With weary heads, we all have wept, just like the weeping willow.
We speak the language of mutual tears that fall unto our pillow.

We can speak another language, not found in any book.
We hold another tongue you’d never find even if you looked.
And although several attempts, despite all of those who’ve tried.
One does not know the feeling depression, unless you’re one of “the kind who cried.”

And despite all of our “translators” -- the counseling and therapy.
It feels as if no one truly knows what happens inside of me.
That constant sadness, that ceaseless grief, that ever-present despair
in every one with depression, is our language, making the bilingual-ness there.