The feeble proliferation-
that drips into my mind,
it tells me I am nothing.

And all the quickest walks-
the shortest feelings,
they become the most pronounced.

By and by, the wordless chorus
will ring their alarms, tout their
bitter and destroyed souls.

I have survived this long,
but my brain tells me,
and it does tell me,
I am wrong to be feeling glad.

Like it knows my happiness is a symptom-
a screaming cry of something sweet in the
temporary maze inside my skull, where
behind each locked door is yet another.

So every switch I turn, every lock I pick, they all
become part of my depression eventually.