Back Fire

They've locked us in a room and named us The Depressed

They've turned their backs

 they don't really care about us. 

To them we're a sensation 

freaks to be repressed

They mock the graves we dug and the sins we confessed,

And they reprise our weakness in the face of loss.

They've locked us in a room and named us The Depressed

We are all shades of black they say

just souls possessed

By the need to feel pain and to be buried in moss.

To them we're a sensation

freaks to be repressed.

With only one look at how we 'tend' to be dressed,

They label us 'Sick'

not giving the coin a toss.

They've locked us in a room 

and named us The Depressed

Like bitter coffee beans,

we are processed

In mills that 'purify' us of all that is gross

To them we're a sensation

freaks to be repressed

But we're not gas particles that can be compressed

Into tight boxes because they fear chaos.

They've locked us in a room and named us The Depressed

To them we're a sensation

 freaks to be repressed.