They say 'Depression is a fashion', While they see those grins and laughs and smirks, 'neath the clabbered disguise of which, Is a random disquiet and a persistent agitation, That moment when the struggle isn't to survive, but to merely achieve that much sought sleep, And when one says "I feel a clamorous commotion", They say "Oh, but depression is just a fashion!" There are those nights, when to breathe itself is a battle, in that dead air, when discorded molecules within, unstoppably hustle, The seconds and minutes and hours, all seem like days, refusing to budge, triumphantly dominating that deepening phrenic haze. And when one's silence shrieks "Help me! I am fading in this convulsion!" They say, "Oh come on, depression is just a fashion!" Then there's the inadequacy of trust, for each face in the crowd, is nothing, but a face beneath a face, beneath another face, And when these faces meld with life's afflictive
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