It's the still nights, the stormy nights
When I want a cigarette
To spark life in my breath,
When sleep seems dead set
On avoiding me.
It leaves me asking why?
I don't even smoke.

I hold a record
That improves with every word
I leave behind me

No one is a strange fellow
He's me but how can that be true
If Descartes only knew
That I know that I'm not
He'd shoot me and tear this poem in two
Before scribbling cogito ergo sum.

I wish I knew him, No one that is
There's this hole that leaves me somewhat distraught
Between my heart and a soft tender spot
Where my soul used to play
And I think No one could slot
There, I feel kind of hollow without him

Yet No one is a stranger
Strolling streets draped in gray
I see his every blink, hear everything he may say
But I care nothing for his life, lot,
Or the contents of his day
He's nothing to me, No One

Depression is an overused word
It might make an easy rhyme
For poets who labor under the impression
That they can climb to the heights of expression
By showing no discretion with each and every
Narcissistic emotional self-obsession confession.

But of all the poetic depression transgressions
From the front of the procession
To the straggling indiscretion
The worst and least touched on
Is that it's boring...

Depression and talk of it
Leads to the inevitable compression
Of each and every tidbit
Or texture that prevents a poem from becoming a lecture

It flattens the curve
It scans the sculpture
A man of depth dwindles to a nerve

But depression doesn't let them see how it narrows their view
The circle it drew around appropriate questions
Ignore the censor and suppression
Be vigilant of the slightest dispossession
Starting to understand this oppression?

Don't let it convince you that you can see more clearly
From the bottom of a pit
You have no idea what you're missing

It is in a way a pure kind of love
A fool's love, tho one which asks for nothing
That cures minds of reason and self coveting
Along with any other rational tools disposed of

I crave it sometimes, I'm ashamed to say
A heart that holds another so dear
It'd beat on my chest in hopes to be nearer,
Trapped in a cage for a crime, framed by the seconds passing away

Indifference, apathy, a shoulder so cold
A normal fool's heart would immediately know
That unrequited love cares little for its throes,
But my heart reaches out for its hand to hold