No words
left--except
for how, when
I wrote this
poem, you will
be expecting
something from
me.

We can be
selfless, you
know. We've
given all our
thoughts and
wisdom to you
for free (and
our folly).

Sure, you may
have to buy
a book, but that's
only because
we are not like
our poems and
require food.

You will
watch these
lines like
your favorite
football team
and hope they
make it to
the playoffs--
each period is
the game that
destroys or feeds
your hope.

It can never
be too full,
but it is
not a flower
rooted in the
self.

I am going
to disappear--
stay awake
until 6 am
when everyone
begins.

They will
look for me
under the
covers, but I
will not be
there.

I will evaporate
into the secret
air of all the
people who
cannot sleep
at night--we
fly into darkness,
because it does
not hurt our
eyes and all
our dreams
cannot die while
they are still
unhatched eggs.

We do not
have to love
anyone, except
from a
distance--they
are perfect there,
held in time
as all the good
things and good
smiles we remember
them as.

No one has
to love us.

Depression is not
a dragon--it
cannot be killed
with a single
****** of an
antidepressant
or a hug.

It is not
a void or a
wave--depression
is like a
melancholy
song only your
ears know--it
sets a mood
for everything.

It is not
a weasel
that grabs
hold of you
from behind.

It is more
like lead
poured down
into each
ventricle of
your soul--
the flesh
is heavy.

Depression is
an allergic
reaction to
self-confidence
and beauty.

Like a rash,
it is hidden
under your
clothes so
no one sees.

It is the
chill in your
fingers that
no blanket
can warm.

Oedipus had
it, the disciples
caught it too--
the germs are
in the sin and
evil we see
each day
(that lives
in us).

Depression is
not a deficiency--
you cannot plug
me into the
wall and charge
me up with
smiles and love.

It is more
like a mirror
at the fair, so
shaky and
convoluted, but
it is in
your eyes.