depression

A certain solitude
circles my heart
perhaps born out of
hunger and deprivation
which has no
romance about it

And then in that
truly dark corner
where I long to sit
and mope

a lonesome melody
plays to me
its harmony

as haunting
as the marks left
indelibly on this paper
by my morose pen

Deep in my heart
one mystic lover
cries out to his shackles

unheard

And as he persists
new and old wounds
gather and make pain

Like a needle stuck
in the groove of a record
feeling to is pain

Out in the open
idle minds make fantasies
of my insanity

A curtain droops
its decisiveness
into my charade

Elsewhere Floyd plays
to soak my fears

“Mother will make all your nightmares come true
Mother will put all her fears into you”

And then
in that
truly dark corner where
I long to sit
and mope…

I sit.

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