Record Player

Depression is like a record player

With a new record every week

and it’s always scratched

Right at the saddest chorus

With all the saddest chords

Those who never pleased the lord

And this week the tune is unlovable

Or maybe that’s just how it makes me feel

And it is playing again and again and again and again

Getting louder each time I starts over

So it’s impossible to ignore it

And with the cacophony resonating off my bones I can’t help but wonder how no one else can hear it

Why no one else is moved by it’s melody

Perhaps the drunk man singing karaoke is too loud in here

Or maybe the music is too loud in here

But my depression is so loud in here

So why is no body else listening

And my answer comes from the wrinkled man at the end of the bar

Who says “you’d be cuter if you smiled”

And if he meant cute enough to fuck me than for once I’m glad I could not smile

To see my face is to see the paper mache mask I make for myself

The fragile facade to hide my emotions

But when the music starts playing

Roaring like the storm clouds of my brain

Do not be surprised if my tears turn to rain

And as the tear drops fall from the armored plates of my face

Down to earth

Listen carefully

And watch the old mask melt away



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