It’s very difficult to write
when you are depressed
when you know depression
isn’t fleeting
isn’t because something happened
but the same as
a piece of string
will get affixed to tree limbs sometimes
and despite all effort
not be able to get
free
O
I envy (you’re not supposed to envy, but I do)
those without this malady
the world would call them stronger
they may blush slightly and say
“aw shucks it’s a lottery isn’t it?
I could be just as glum as you if
my dog died, if my car broke down“
and in those instances I want
so much to say
nononono
that’s not it
at all
it’s crying on your wedding day
from pain not joy
it’s feeling strong at a funeral because
the wires in your head don’t fire right
it’s understanding you’re going to have to try ten times harder
just to stand and be counted
and even then
you may wish
not to be counted
because perversity
is the twin
of sadness
she breaks you into shards
snickering as you
flail to put things back
It’s very difficult to write
when you are depressed
when you know depression
isn’t something you can push through
like your MFA teacher bid
one night when you contemplated
cutting your wrists with broken pottery
almost on a lark when hearing; try to work smarter!
desperation surging unbidden
fast and dark like unfiltered coffee
always leaves its gritty mark
on the ennui of fileted souls.
(This is for all those who were ever shamed for being depressed and having depressive symptoms, for feeling they were ‘less than’ because they could not function seamlessly as others appeared to. I see you. You are counted).
TheFeatheredSleep 