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The Chicken of Depression


I wore it as a badge.
It wore itself on my face.
It was a heavy fishing lure pulling
down my lower lip while
any previous joy melted from its once familiar place.
It was by turns dark, magnetic, perplexing.
It had willfully replaced:
the dancing girl, the gypsy girl, the harlequin girl.
It chased away most of the finer boys.
It made me feel disgraced.
I had no realm. I was vagrant.
Silence within and stubbornness without.
Free will had lost its identity.
I was hostage.
Plagued by crusty neuroses and doubt.
Sleep-deprived, mind-mumbledy-pegged,
good fortune had left the hang man, hung,
put the poor man out to beg.
It wore me, til it wore me down.
I was a dressed bird, a over-done pheasant under glass.
With my chin, my forehead pressed up against the high dome of it
I wondered who would be the one to outlast.
I wondered if I'd ever triumph,
or if it would always win..
I mused on what to call it,
this rare bird of depression.
I languished for nigh 20 years, it was no friend,
but more familiar.
It didn't care how much I doted on myself
it wanted all the attention for itself and
what mattered most was quite peculiar...
It said to me:
"You must accept me as I am,
For I am the Chicken of Depression."
I had to laugh,
to sneak in a crinkled smile...
for I (at last) had braved it long,
ever since I was a child
So now at last it has a name, so
we can tolerate one another well enough.
And now it doesn't cackle on like before,
nor bother me as much.




Written on Halloween October 31 2011
I mean no offense...Depression is no small matter and it ain't for sissies.
It just might provide you with the fodder to build an entire poetry site.
In honor of all of the creativity fueled by "Madness" out there...they are the "normies."
I give you my eternal sincere regard...may you live to enlighten the uninitiated and to
bring yourself praise and a measure of happiness. You are the oldest of souls.
Yes, that is a bluebird I have used as a background, as it is preferable.

Meloo of Tilt-a-World.







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