A Poem Called "Grind" About New Years From the Mind of a Person Battling Depression
It’s a mask on a mask, we annually paste,
Convincing ourselves in several ways,
That a reset will happen and it’s all ok.
Now I can leave it all behind.
When the clock strikes twelve, a miracle will occur,
Injecting my heart with a magical cure,
For the crippling ache in this grey mattered cup,
And only bottles I find.
And I gently place all my friends in a bag,
Leave it out on my doorstep and watch it’s form sag,
And slowly it hits me as my head starts to clear,
Need to buy more friends for the mind.
And I run to the store before it can come,
Reality, the true conundrum,
The work, the people, the life hasn’t changed,
It’s the same!
This loop is a bind.
So I’m back with my friends and some of their friends,
Leaning on soft cotton rocks under a warm cotton den,
As the light from the screen shines the drops on my jowls,
This is the yearly grind.
© 2017 C W Kage