Words Fail Me (a poem)

Words Fail Me

The thing about poetry is

you try to make it pretty.

You strive for eloquent phrases

and to give people something

they can hold on to.

Cover pain in flowers and paint loss

with graceful brush strokes.

There is either the poem of joy

or the lament of hurt, but

I am flat-lined.

I have no metaphor for the nights of

doing nothing, for the lack of motivation,

for the emptiness in my head.

This is no romantic suffering

with a mysterious beauty.

This is not razorblades on a bed of daisies,

black and white, “vintage” filter,

“soft grunge,” #depression, no.

This is the rust-colored pot filled

with dirt and barren of seeds.

There’s plenty of water, but it’s no use to me.

The thing about Depression is,

there is no glamour, and

there is nothing to be envied

about this.

~February, 2017

and here we have what happens when you try to scan a paper that has been warped from using paint...