I Hate My Poems, My Life and Depression

I hate my life but I choose to fight, it's the right I'm given while I'm alive, trapped each day and night without light, but I'm going to fight until it is bright. My head lives in my hands 'cus I can't understand, how far I've travelled to this barren land. I'm unsure how to meet what life demands, and all the while this landscape expands. I'm fed up with feeling like I want to survive, and one minute later wishing I wasn't alive. I'm constantly searching for inspiration and drive, it taunts me and disappears into a deep sea dive. I hate all my poems that are all about depression, and how it arrested me, trialled and sentenced, with its one way out that is beyond expectations, so I don't use actions I just write a new sentence. I've forgotten the many ways life rewards, so it feeds a fear that keeps me indoors, I bet your life has plans and a vision in store, my plan's to die so I feel this pain no more. But I'm British, we survive, we fight, we stay alive, a country that rose from an island to an empire, that went beyond expectations and others to thrive, so I'll never give in to this situation that's dire. I guess that inspiration got caught in my net, and I guess that desire couldn't resist the bait, because though it taunts me it was there to get, I hate my life but while I breathe it is never to late.