I worried for your future.
Although I'm not sure that past tense represents what I sense.
I cried, I tried, but you kept everything on lockdown inside.
I knew you were down. A frown plastered. Your gown remastered.
Hiding behind a smile.
I couldn't help but worry and fret, or else you'd forget,
what made living life worthwhile.
You seemed blank. Something you beamed forced yourself to outrank
any proof I had of your gloom.
While depression raged below. You staged your own show.
In your wonderful handmade costume.
You have talent. You have grace. A fake, sewn on face.
I worry your sadness remains.
Nothing is good. It must be redone. No time here for fun.
Success is your ball and chain.
I would tell you to fight. That you'll be alright.
That this time you'll get through just fine.
You would shake your head. "It's no good" you said.
Your mood in a steady decline.
You got along okay. And even to this day...
I worry for your mental state.
But I'm sure if I inquire. You'd turn back into that liar.
That says you're doing just great.
