They call it depression, but it's an addiction to something that's not there-
It's an expression that we wear; it's repressed need-worn mentally.
And torn entities are born, but big men scorn with forlorn identities.
Ungentle mouths sending free telegrams to stop everything stop.
Want masquerading as need.
An embedded seed we tried to prune one day, but grew instead.
Weedy tendrils that push out my head.
Bleeding temperamentally internally eventually until it grows aware:
Despite hiding it or changing it, we carry on:
Recognizing our own ambiguity in another person's stare.