Depression is masculine,
Happiness is feminine,
Anger is androgynous,
Fear is anonymous.

To see ones self is to hate even more,
To think of one's self is to think of what's in store
Oh, how the body is false,
The mind is a prison made of faults.
Stuck inside as I walk the line,
Forced inside to where the sun never shines.

In the company of familiar strangers,
The type you know like a ranger,
Or that with the spirit of a teenager,
Not knowing or completely identifying,
But still ****** with through consequence and conceptualizing.

Though some take the form of friendly faces,
Others take form like that of a nightmare that makes you walk in paces,
Reminding you of the turmoil inside your mind,
The fight between your perception and what you find,
What you see in the mirror and what you hide behind,
Finding the faces chase you with ideas they do not underpine