Depression

I wrote a poem that made me depressed
it took out me my natural sense of optimism
left me with the reality of the truth.
I never was a poet, only a lone man seeking
solace in an imaginary life.
Someone said my work was about my self
this is not so I write in the “I” form write
what I have read, what people have spoken and
what I think about the incredible life lived
at the outer edges of society.
Friends I had, only a few, have died
leaving me waiting for the knock on the door:
come now you can´t postpone it any longer.
I shall not go hollering into the good night,
passively submit, offer my heart and wait
for the axe to fall and I say let it be over quickly.