Depression

Depression I wrote a poem that made me depressed it took out me my natural sense of optimism left me with the reality of the truth. I never was a poet, only a lone man seeking solace in an imaginary life. Someone said my work was about my self this is not so I write in the “I” form write what I have read, what people have spoken and what I think about the incredible life lived at the outer edges of society. Friends I had, only a few, have died leaving me waiting for the knock on the door: come now you can´t postpone it any longer. I shall not go hollering into the good night, passively submit, offer my heart and wait for the axe to fall and I say let it be over quickly.