a poem about depression


The soft apologetic grey of evening

squeezes me out from where I’ve sat so long

safe from prying minds but close to the shimmering edge.

A gaunt and prowling night cat,

I stalk these polished streets alone,

meeting the face of my fear

in each gleaming surface. I cringe

from the masses of promised life

that hunt in packs on every side;

I rush back home where my mental bags

are ready and waiting by the door.

I’m still not sure I’m even really here

and I think that someone’s moved my things around,

but my shadow nods and waves politely

as it always does. The same old vulture

swoops low to tear me up by the roots

and beats its bloody wings around my head

while it pours its sickly sweet taste in my mouth.

I sip each day from a gritty cup;

outside they are many, in here I am one.

Published in Drawn to the Light

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