For it took just one soul to grow a life
A soul with womanly yet valiant mind
With her manly motherly undaunted might
With her unwieldy towering chunk of dreams
All alone, she raised me
Bruised and blemished badly
And, “a proud mama’s boy you are”,
you might say?
And, why would I even be ashamed?

The Last Dinosaur

     Once there was eight born in order
Three males and a female and repeat
First there was School and then came
Work all within the system of defeat

I was number six of the eight but life
Came to each in different ways
And nothing is ever as clear as black
And white it’s filled with shades of grays

Dinosaur one his retirement came natural
Dinosaur two the same but not for three
And not for four, five is still working but
Soon naturally he will also be finally free

Number five and I came close to death
Him only once but I was four times dead
But seven and eight they too dropped out
Early and no longer chase the bread

Five told me that the social worker was
Working on his plan to walk out the door
Now obviously after the simple math
You guessed it, I’m The Last Dinosaur

Written By:Charles Kean
06/15/2024

Depression.
One word.
Pretty easy to say.
But what you don’t know
Is that it controls my day.
The sun rises as I go to get out of bed
yet depression whispers “You’d be better off dead.”
But I push through those words and I make it to class
when it comes to concentration, depression kicks me in the ***.
So I go to eat lunch, but nothing looks appetizing
depression smiles at me and asks if that’s surprising
Another class, let’s see how this one goes
Will I pass this test? Only depression really knows
Cause last night when I went home and tried to study
depression was surely there, my only buddy
And although I tried to do my absolute best
depression said, “I think we’ll fail this test.”
My teachers look at me in absolute disgust
I try to tell the truth, but depression doesn’t let me trust
So instead I say I’m sick, a cold or maybe the flu
But I’m sick inside my head, and depression proves that true
You can’t expect them to understand the pain and the sorrow
This depression is unique to me, you’d only know if my mind you could borrow
But back to my daily routine, I didn’t mean to digress
sometimes my thoughts start racing, depression never lets me rest
Which leads me to sleep, for some the best part of the night
Dear depression, will you let me sleep? Maybe, I just might
Then I look at the clock and it’s almost four in the morning
Depression, why are you doing this? In my mind it’s nearly storming
For most are in their beds, cuddled up all snug and tight
But depression sowed up early this morning, so I have to be ready to fight
Some have called me strong, but that is not how I feel
for depression clouds my head, and I’m not sure what’s real
And there it is again, the sun has stared to rise
I’ve made it through another day, to depression, that’s a surprise.

Depression is hard to understand. The dictionary naively refers to it as, "feelings of severe despondency and dejection." But what does the dictionary know about depression? I think depression is more complicated than that. But I don't quite know what that consists of. I've been trying to figure it out for months now, and I just can't seem to understand. I don't know what depression is, but I can tell you what it's not.

Depression is not polite. Depression doesn't knock before he barges in. He just lets himself in, unannounced and unexpected, and leaves me gasping for what little air is left in the room.
Depression isn't clean. He doesn't tidy up after he makes a mess. He comes into my life like a hurricane, and leaves me to pick up the crumbled pieces of my rubbled life.
Depression isn't moral. He steals my happiness and kills my spirit. He doesn't abide by any common rules or laws, he makes his own rules and I have to play by them.
Depression isn't popular. The only "friends" he has are his victims. He drags me away from everyone who used to love me, and leaves me isolated in a cold, dark place.
Depression isn't respectful. He claws his way into the lives of so many genuine people and drives them to the brink of insanity. He has no regard for my thoughts or my feelings, stomping all over me until there's nothing decent left to salvage.
Depression isn't creative. He tells you everything as it is and makes you see all of the terrible things poisoning the world. He doesn't sugarcoat the truth, no matter how much it hurts, and he helped me clearly see even my smallest of flaws.
Depression isn't nice. He calls me ugly and tells me I'm worthless. The words he whispers ring in my ears: "**** yourself, **** yourself, **** yourself."

It's hard to define depression. It doesn't fit into a small box. I've practically driven myself crazy trying to figure out what it is and why this is happening to me. I don't understand depression, and no matter how hard I try to define it, I always fall short. I don't know if depression can ever be defined. While I try aimlessly to define the undefinable, depression ruthlessly takes advantage of me. I can try as much as I'd like, but I don't define depression, depression defines me.

so I noticed that we both drink coffee.
just like anyone, we both like ours a certain way.
i like mine sweeter, with just the aftertaste of coffee there.
caramel, sugar, creamer.
i think about when i’ll have my next cup, and the idea of it alone makes me happy.
i don’t care what time of day i have it, i almost always have a cup.
i make time for my coffee.
it might be safe to say i think you like your coffee black.
you might add just the smallest touch to soften its bitter taste, but never too much.
sometimes i think you just pour it and carry on, as though it’s nothing important at all.
as though all it is, is just some quick fix.
like you just want to get it over with.
we drink it in two different ways.
i drink it slowly.
i note every flavor in every sip, i enjoy it.
i note the warmth it brings me.
i like it all hours of the day.
you drink it quickly.
quicker than me, at least.
you don’t care if it burns your tongue, or perhaps you’re used to the pain.
you accept it.
you never let it last, you move on to something else soon after.
i lay in your bed, watching your eyes as they skim the screen in front of you.
your mind is somewhere else.
i savor the moments you look my way, if even for a second, and smile at me.
i wonder if you even notice them.
i feel your laugh vibrate my bones, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
do i make you feel at all?
i reflect on it every time i drink my coffee.
i think about it with each and every sip, taking my time.
something tells me that you don’t do the same.
after all, it's just coffee.
but i put my all into this coffee.
i think you like your coffee black.

I can’t tell you why I’m writing this.
I can tell you that it feels right.
I’m listening to your record to get a feel for you and I’m lighting coffee scented candles to help me miss you more clearly. I’m scared to write.
I miss you so much sometimes.
Even when you’re right next to me.
It’s annoying.
I always doubt myself around you.
I think you think I call you pretty too much.
You are so ******* pretty.
I feel distant, but then you look up at me and I’m reminded that I am an idiot for missing someone so near to me.
Then I think of how ******* lucky I am.
And how perfect you are.
And I go home and light candles and write of how I wish I had the guts to say “I love you.”
And how I wish I had the guts to believe that you would say it back.
You can call me a coward for putting it in writing, but it’s still true.
I love you.