I go, happy she'll be there, 
but it isn't fair; 
she comes, but stays away from me. 
But, oh, isn't she so lovely. 
Depression 
sets in, 
deeper with each song. 
I feel so wrong. 
And I can't really talk to anyone, 
though it seems my troubles weigh a ton, 
because I think releasing my emotional violence 
would be breaking her wish for silence. 
So, carefully I leave, 
maybe they'll believe 
that I went for a walk, 
and they won't talk. 
Instead, on the stairs, where no one hears, 
I sit and cry hot running tears. 
Then, when they end, I walk while my eyes dry, 
come back again, and nonchalantly say, "Hi." 

May 20, 1985