Anxious For A Refill


a fragile egg head
falls to pieces
before a shell-shocked
throng unable
to keep it together

the crackup and me
we’re off to Walgreens
with the windows down
drifting away
on an Ativan trip

a pig wise enough
to hide behind bricks
captures a wolf
with rage in his heart
and boils him to taste

the piggy and me
we’re off to Walgreens
with the radio loud
fading away
on an Ativan trip

deep in the woods
without supervision
two German kids
outsmart a witch
cooking up murder

the lost ones and me
we’re off to Walgreens
with the highway wide
slipping away
on an Ativan trip

c b snoad


A Serious Case Of The Blues

Excuse me while I get this nonsense out of my system:

My depression is a defense mechanism protecting me from hazards and hardships.

My depression gives me an edge, adds shape to an otherwise flat existence.

My depression somehow makes me a better poet because it deals in suffering.

My depression adds content, purpose and routine to my life as I progress through treatment.

My depression serves as a substitute for a traditional spiritual quest.

My depression is a mask for my underlying narcissism and feelings of entitlement.

My depression is a safe place to hide my guilt.

My depression is a scapegoat for my imperfections and shortcomings.

My depression is a learned response instilled at an early age by those who love me.

My depression is an act of aggression against a hostile, unforgiving world.

My depression makes me a statistic, an object for doctors, lawyers and the government to study.

My depression gets me attention.

My depression gives me a sense of accomplishment when I think I’ve overcome it.

My depression is a preexisting condition.

My depression gives me something to write about on the Internet.