One in five.

Normally, I shake off the things that people say,
With which I disagree, that I do not think are okay.
This time, though, I refuse to hold my tongue...
I think that something must be said, or that something must be done.

There is such a stigma against depression, cutting, and self harm.
Against the people that feel empty, who bring razors to their arms.
We label them as "emo," and, "oh they're just looking for attention."
Yet, in reality, we are too dense to realize our own misapprehension.

The statistics, they scream that there is something we do not see.
One in five people struggle, one in five could be in close proximity.
It could be the mother, the young adult; they could appear just fine...
They could look just like you; they're not of a certain design.

They may prefer rock music, or they may even like hip hop,
We think they must be a certain way, but this thinking has got to stop.
This problem is real, it is standing right before our eyes; these people hurt!
They are broken, they feel empty, they are struggling to see their self-worth.

This stigma keeps them from being open about the things they face.
Shouldn't we draw them in with love, with a warm embrace?
Anyone can struggle with self-injury. Anyone... including me.
Yet the majority of people around were unaware; they did not see.

I am tired of hearing jokes, "this song makes me want to slit my wrists."
Lightheartedly throwing the topic around, yet this problem still persists.
It is not some minuscule issue; it is an epidemic, hidden yet prevalent.
Can we forget the stereotypes? Can we notice that we all hurt, we're all human?

Our words can either draw people in, or push them further away.
We might come to find that the people closest to us struggle, to our own dismay.
So when reality hits us in the face, we can only hope that it's not too late.
That there were not things left unsaid, or things we wish we could unsay.
One in five. One in five. We encounter so many more faces than just five within a day.
As we interact with those faces, let us remember who exactly we portray.
He is the Potter and we are the clay.
"Mold us into something beautiful," this we pray.
There was brokenness in me, He so lovingly pieced back together after I'd gone astray,
Because loving those who are broken— this is the Potter's forte.