Depression

Beasts lie in wait made from hobbies I loved.
Piles of unfinished projects like skyscrapers.
Fear that the skills and imagination I had,
vanished along with the better me.

Is it so bad they pretend not notice?
Or am I just so good at saving face?
Have I made a smoke screen of normality?

Nothing to reflect I am here, because I am not.
The big slap in the face is that no one noticed,
Until my servant hands stilled with confusion.
How dare I stop the machines and production?

But I believe in quality not quantity, so I am still.
And yet they demand a half-assed job,
confusing my movement with action.
And that I think is what hurts me the most.

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda's"  bury me alive.
Their resentment is eating the crumbs of me.
The word "ingrate" comes to mind.
If I make it back it will be on my own as usual.

Mollasses-footed, I'm  a mobile-comatose joke.
Wearing my trademark iron-scorched clothing,
I try and keep up with the herd's heel-dust.

We pass a wastebasket and I drop it skillfully,
and the appointment slip falls among the garbage.
"Diagnosis- depression." scrawled on the paper.

by Kimarie Manhart-Freeman