I am from endless playing in the garden, from jam-on-toast and real coal fires. Continue reading
I will not have it.
I’ll brook no argument.
I’ll tackle all those demons
With their malicious, hate intent
Those ones who whisper in your ear
Who play upon your every fear
Who stalk your shadows and stick too near
I’ll batter them.
I’m not sure if it’s wisdom or foolishness to give the care of the depressed to the depressed…
either way it fits the cues…
The whole thing is rather ironic
a soul such as mine so dystonic
would be entrusted with the care
of those who live there
it makes depression all that more sardonic
(addendum 11/11 pm)
I suppose if the shoe fits, you wear it
despite your mood being disparet
from that which you preach
to those in the breach
thus saving us all from the garotte
I might add to this poem as I go… who knows? ~z
feel free to add to it in the comments and we will put it all together