What is strange is the lack of reason,
that blue is my favorite season.
Sadness be my bottle, and sorrow be my fuel.
Darkness shows me where the light is living, and so
blue forever rules.
An ache of puzzling pleasure
is the thorn of dark despair.
So oddly is the sound of strained emotion music in the air.
The wall of bleak depravity is like a blanket warm and soft,
enrapturing me in melancholy and keeping me aloft.
Woe is so soon my watchword, and waning resolve my cry.
Teardrops are like candy, and moonlight my exclusive sky.
So addictive it is to weep I say,
and many would think me mad,
but still it seems depression is the best I’ve ever had.
The reason does not matter, for I shall find some cause with ease;
and the season of blue,
while its ways ensue,
will give me such a tease.