Monday, December 27, 2010

Prozac Sunrise

My walls are black, the way I like 'em
They don't pretend in a colourless world
and the ravens rise, no way to fight 'em
Breathe in the smoke as it uncurls

I can safely say I have not missed
the colours you stole when you went away
the blue from the sky, the red from my wrist
which have congealed and settled into shades of gray

I could paint a Prozachean sunrise
or write a tender verse about despair
inspiration flickers and then it dies
I write, I paint, I find, I do not care

But depression is art and I do it so well
I do it so it feels like hell.

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