I must use the word ‘I’ but I does not exist.
And it baffles the rational mind easily
To consider who I is at any moment.
Characters we must play; the body may resent.
If we just keep on acting and show no pity
We may need to befriend a good psychiatrist.

I am not the performer. The roles that I play
Represent parts of myself who act out of fear.
I am not the damned poet that I’d love to be
Nor am I my well crafted personality.
What I am truly is something sacred and dear.
I am that which is programmed to stand in its way.

Sadness happens to everyone once in a while
And is brief in duration, whatever the cause.
Depression is a different animal, though.
It’s my body informing me that it wants no
More to do with my avatar. So it withdraws
Into a state of disease to where I can’t smile.

When the body says, “Screw you,” and it is ignored,
Then in retaliation it will be depressed.
Depressed means that a Deep Rest is clearly called for.
I must answer that calling. My act is a chore
That I use for survival. Yet there’s no conquest
That is of more significance than self explored.