Depression

 

I listen to John Lennon and Slash my wrists

The blackest night commands, insists

The melancholy always persists

The call of death I won’t resist

 

Don’t talk to me of petty trysts

That mar my love like cancerous cysts
And scar my body which only consists

Of boils, sores, unsated fists

 

Don’t talk to me of another tomorrow

Another day to perpetuate sorrow

The repetition, the eternal low

The life that never casts a glow

 

Don’t talk to me of things called friends

They come in very noxious blends

Of lying lawyers that append

A codicil to love they send

 

And don’t talk to me of dear old Steve

The love we had they disbelieve

And from this pain there’s no reprieve

And when I’m dead he will not grieve

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2006

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