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