Moods like storms,

Saturated from the downpour,

Until worms come out to squirm,

I’m fish food for the ward,

Shelf life passed,

I’ll make you nauseous,

I have my own dance,

That others hate,

Because it mirrors others,

And no one wants to be bothered,

Or confronted,

Rather call me a plague,

That’s why I play hide and seek,

By tethering my emotions with weed,

Rather be dull and smile,

And calm my inner chatter,

Than address my problems,

And be a sight for the circus,

So what is the purpose?

Do tell,

I have no conclusions.