Depression Is

Depression has senses you know it has a certain scent It reeks more than body odor It shows of the descent There's booze oozing from my pits Teeth not touched in days A crotch not washed, oh dirty thoughts This is the end of days Onions I cut two nights before Still linger on my skin Hair greased back in mashed up sick sacks Sloth is now what's in The skin around my fingers More raw than veal filet And the darkest of dreams, of what could it seem Getting sicker by the day This is depression, what no one wants to know It has an odor and a sight, smell is rank the sight is dark It comes as often as the wind blows