I am the corpse no one expects

I am the corpse no one expects,
One of those whose demeanor affects
The pleasantries of happiness;
But underneath there snaps duress,
Whip-like in vicious dialects.

A melancholy which vivisects
The soul. Simple becomes complex
For the wretch whom no one would guess
           I am.

Misery in stasis directs 
Toward a grave; emotion collects
In a gutter where I compress
From our dimension down one less.
As one of secret derelicts,
                                             I am.