Here's Your Explanation

Are you always this depressed? she asked,
before she ever knew my face.
I'd say I'm not, not a whole lot,
but sometimes things get out of place.
Some days nothing seems to work,
and the only thing that will listen to me--
my whines, complaints, and shadowed taints--
is this little thing called poetry.
It's funny how my thoughts come out
of the messed up place I call my mind.
Some people think I've gone over the brink
but no worries; that'll come another time.
I'm scared to death of letting go
so this is how I protect myself:
take all my emotions, add some interesting notions,
and slap another one up on the shelf.

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