—But I really think that I am depressed.
Concave, convex
Banal, or whatever word.
I used to be so happy, now—

There is a sun—one million suns
and shine shine shine tells me that,
when flowers grow I grow too,
but really they wither and when that—

With that, I stopped in thought.
So many petals so pronounced upon grounds
and I fill in the space where they lounge.

—I ought to get help.
But I see no point other than sit
with these suns and bask and then—
I might shrivel a little, and
then I might crisp and
then I might not
be anything,
at all.