like weeping notes
they paint harmonic minor thoughts
in your mind. and you hear
murky melodies, because
you're alone.

with eyes a closed
you started playing tunes
like builiding a castle
of ancient depression
and doom. 

then you dream of
becoming a music painter,
brushing notes to
the canvas. alone
and you ran out of dark
red color. so you cut your wrist
just to mend 
the contagious disease
of happiness.
because for you 
depression
is a gift.

but you're awake
and still painting the horror. music
of grief. playing the mural
depression landscape.  the colors
and tunes of doom
they breathe.

then you wish
the dripping red paints from your wrist
and darkest tunes
would never reach
their end.