Tuesday, 12 January 2016

Glass Flesh

Depression's not a five letter word,
does being a 'freak' mean being unheard?
No one left to hear you speak.
Cause you're the black sheep,
but the beetles will creep, yes, seep an oozing oil to your breast
or to your cheek.

Does seeing a ghost mean you're merely a host
for 2nd class citizen, weak adjective's criticsm?
Cause It makes you mad,
that being a 'little sad'
is what they call it when you drink your feelings
you're no more than a frown
when you unzip your veins
and the budget for your pains
trickles down the Tory's drains.

Depression's not a five letter word,
you're not a 'schizo' or a 'loone'
just cause you've gone out of tune;
you need someone to pick you up.
Not pluck at your strings,
you're so used to abuse being everything.
So swallow your pills like a good little boy,
turn into their toy,
become part of their ploy.
Cause their solution to your mental revolution is to be in an institution.
You're a stain on their surveys,
a wine drop on their cliches.
But white spirit won't clean you,
til' they've ink-blot tested and brayed you.
Then you're out.

Depression's not a five letter word,
do they think we're the terrorists?
Polluting their air with scars, shooting-needles and “therapists”.
We're the end of 2-poles, 'nut-jobs',
'Why won't you eat hot-dogs?',
unemployed little bastards who are purely disasters,
living off vodka and plasters.
But would they understand if we got up and run?
Carving into our arms 3 new ladder-rungs.
You think this is fun?
Do we choose to see figments
or separate food into calorie segments,
does this look like a fucking contract agreement?
Stop using us as an excuse cause we're

Depression's not a five letter word,
let us free our own thoughts,
don't set fly-traps and fish-hook consonants.
We don't want to be caught.
And if the talking cure is your minute mission,

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