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
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