Category Archives: depression

Jigsaw

What is this, my friend?

You, the one who never makes plans,
have cobbled this one together
from the remnants of the morning.

You really shouldn’t be left alone,
you know,
but it was with relish that you contemplated an afternoon of dead rest,
owing to their shopping and a movie plans.

Out the doorway they shuffled,
with rearward glances and catcalls of false regret
that you were under the weather.
You smiled slyly and pushed the door up.
There.

One cup of hot freshly ground coffee.
One lazyboy that the cats have owned for a long time.
Fresh batteries in the remote,
good stories on Netflix.
None of those shoot ’em up, blow ’em up, car-chasing, teeny bopper,
obscene stand-up comic kinds of pictures.

Said cats are sorely pissed that you have had the temerity to take their chair,
but they settle in, seeming to recognize that this is your day.
Plus, you have cheezies, and that seals the deal.

Now for something calming and easy to digest.
A romantic comedy?
Nah, too contrived.
A documentary on whales?
Seen one, seen ’em all.
Horror?
It took you ten years to get over the last one you saw.

This is cynicism 101, you know, right?

The two fuzz buddies settle down,
and take turns licking your orange fingers.

A half hour later,
while you’re still scrolling through movies as if you were playing the slots,
something heavy wells up from within you.
No reason.  No reason.
The puzzle of your life, so carefully fitted,
has lost its connectedness.
Higgledy-piggledy, topsy-turvy.
There’s that old familiar throat tightness.
Those ball bearings you’ve gotta swallow,
and you do it.
Even here, you do it.
Even here, alone, you struggle for control,
but pools of your tears darken your shirt of pastel blue.

The felines somehow sense this sadness.
They creep up your shoulders and nuzzle your ears with their purrs.
And you can touch them.
You can hold them.
You can cry it out until they are wet and want to lick the salt.
Never would you let anyone see this.

By eight o’clock you are composed,
redness and puffiness gone.

You are hoping they hurry home.

Mister M.

 

 

We mumbles,
yes we mumbles,
and oftentimes we screams.
Depends a lot on Mister “M”,
Director of our dreams.

We stumbles and we fumbles,
through the achy breaky pains.
And he always makes us stay inside,
excepting when it rains.

Now, quite a skimpy imp he is,
but never is he humble.
He Keeps us down and out of it,
no matter how we grumble.

He takes delight in malady
and worthiness a-crumble.
Remembrance of normality
has taken quite a tumble.

We hear that even Superman
could not defeat the imp.
We’ve got to learn to think again
to cure us of its gimp.

So, fight its stories drear and dark,
and give it no more place.
Unhappiness, his mortal mark,
may leave but little trace.

Finders keepers ***graphic***

In this year of China’s moon,
there ends a life too soon.

On the cliff’s outcropping I stand,
not yet daring the mile-down view.
I wait for the scene seekers to disperse,
then pin this sorry note to the grappling tree.

You see,
I cannot shake them.
Like brain bees they buzz.
Dark stories they tell, without end.

All help seemed too busy with life.

Now, I will walk backwards,
fixing on the air’s horizon,
leaving no room for second thought.

I will count the paces.
Ten, twenty, thirty.
I will wait for the surge of crazy strength.
I will run, arms wheeling,
and be gone.

Good person,
I hope to make the river,
winding in the sun’s silver,
to spare you the sight’s abomination:
my pile of jellied bones,
entrails of pastel,
abalone membranes.

If the punctured eyes contrive a stare,
it is not accusatory-
only a mirror
of a hell that slowly did go by.

May the Force be with me

A metal piece inside the chest

Remembers faulty rhythms

Within the heart’s unquiet rest

I think of embolisms

The days of cruel and crushing weight

They once did come but rarely

But now, upon this latter date

They savage me unfairly

The sleeping drugs I’ve much abused

In fear of something worse

Now far too many have I used

My nervousness to nurse

With aging body’s pains and ills

Imagined or ingrained

The shame of multicoloured pills

Has sorrowfully remained

Things that have been diagnosed

With tests and suppositions

Would be enough to challenge most

and feed their superstitions

So here and now I need the will

The spirit strong enough

Get out of bed, get off the pill

And show I have the stuff.