I am frivolous.
Pain equivalence.
What I feel,
is it real,
or is it just perception?
That's the question
I'm begging you
for answers to.

Reaction
guides my action.

Chemical and automatic,
Stagnant and static

These thoughts of me..
frozen in immobility.

I'll admit that rhyme and meter don't mean too much to me
I like the flow of words without structural integrity
If it rolls off my tongue but lands on deaf ears
Blibbity dibbity doo da dib da diminy
who cares...

Boogey boogey boo
the government's coming for you.

You claim to speak the truth,
but I can smell the bull-doo.

Suckered into algorithmic chat,
you swapped out your foil hat.

Yeah,
you got plenty to say about that...

"Do your own research," you say
in that smarmy, satisfied way.

A Cheshire grin of vapidity
stretching across the infinity

of your insipid, stifled ignorance.
Well, maybe just for once,

instead of condemning us to hell,
you could try questioning yourself.

I'd say a character with no self doubt
is guaranteed to be wrong about

quite
a
lot.

Hello, Depression!
It sure is a fine day we're having.
You look good.
Is that a new shirt?
(Don't worry...
I won't ask you
that question.)

But I was wondering...
Do you still have
that book I lent?
or that dance step
and that drum set
and that pile of projects,
or that relationship
and that tiny pit of—
-not despair-
we used to sit with?

And what about that
career path,
or that time we had
or that moment of belief,
where sorrow was reprieved,
and we knew—
we knew
that love was something real?

I know you're very sensitive, Depression,
but if you don't give them back—
I'm going to have to ask you...
That question.

A sculptor sees form beneath stone,
and essence emerges from discarding.

But this hammer was not wielded by expert hands.
Material has been carelessly cast away.

What remains is fractured, uneven, and lopsided,
with one eye far lower than the other,
and a contorted expression that is both
proud in posture, but slack in repose.

A master sculptor would call it a lost cause.
A sophomoric effort.
An amateur's attempt at boldness.

And they are correct.

But perhaps the medium can be changed.
Alchemical processes can turn stone to plasticine—
elastic plasticity that graciously conforms
to the will that shapes it.

Though there is little to work with,
the stone can be softened,
and new forms can be.

I do. I do.
I do care.

Though not-doing
is the guilt I bare

My inaction leads
to things undone.

The shame I feel
for things un-won.

Can I be
as I'm perceived?
(The face they see.)

For once, just let me—
please.

Reward system's been ******.
Once we had too much.
Now, not enough.
We're gonna need a hard reset.
Definitely not looking forward to that.