Everything is symbolic
when depressed.

Taking a bath becomes
metaphor: rejuvenation.

Waking up: a gift.
Morning coffee: elixir.

Taking the trash out:
a twelve-step program

towards cleanse.
But garbage is garbage.

And you are you.
And physics, chemistry,

psychology are just words
explaining the phenomenon,

but apart from the phenomenon.
The phenomenon you,

in the dark, in a cage,
writing poems to extinguish

the void. Like cleaning
an oil pill with bare hands.

Gunk and grime slipping
through fingers. What luck,

though. Colors might
Slither through. Occasionally.

And I know that is a symbol,
too. I’m sorry.

Everything is symbolic
when depressed.