My black dog

My black dog

I'm an inside-out depressive
who should be worse at night
though, what's fairly impressive
is the way I put things right.

Waking, I'm contrary,
sometimes I feel so bad,
it's really rather scary,
I feel I'm going mad.

Then, as the day progresses,
I begin to feel okay,
reflect on my successes,
melancholy goes away.

So, when it's time for bed,
I'm feeling good, again,
knowing what lies ahead;
in the morning, start again.

Living with a monster

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Living with a monster

A monster lives inside my head,
He's dormant, but capricious
And, like a gangster playing dead,
When wide awake, he's vicious.

He lashes out at those he loves
With savage, brutal words;
Not sugar-coated, soft kid-gloves
But terms you don't need heard.

And when this monster's dished his dirt,
I need to take the blame;
Apologise to those he's hurt
And hang my head in shame.

To keep this beast within control
Is difficult to do,
And so my wife, God bless her soul,
Lives with a monster too.

Whisky Maudlin

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Whisky Maudlin

Please let me die,
curl up in a heap;
life is too much,
I just want to sleep.

Yes, I'm depressive
but life is so tough;
it's distractions oppressive,
I've had quite enough.

I know that I love you
but you don't need me,
please let me slumber,
please, let me be.

Torn

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Torn

This terrible rage
in the critical cage
of my mind
I find, needs to out
to tantrum, to shout
at the ones it holds dear
then, regretting the tears
sneaks, like a thief
back into its cage,
for an age.

The other half-me,
the one that most see,
is sweetness and light,
treats people right,
is a cowardly knave,
the other half's slave.
It needs to grow teeth,
find the courage beneath
the boldness to change,
kill the beast
in the cage.

Natural healing

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Natural healing

Gaudily-coloured, thoughtless litter,
a twisted, traffic-soiled tree.
The neglected house
with it's burglar-challenging boarding.
A slovenly parade
of prematurely closed shops.
The pushchaired child
in a tissue thin frock
and summer wellingtons,
gawping
at a passing hearse,
its occupants
a study in collective grief.

Suddenly,
a Blackbird,
dark as jet,
with a beak
the colour of school custard,
hops down
onto a knuckled branch,
opens his throat
and sings
the first few notes
of his honeysuckle song,
lifting my soul
and I know I will make it
through another day.

All about me

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All about me

It is
an illness.
Who, in their right mind
wants to feel
like this.
And that's the point,
I'm not.

But,
it is self-centred,
my right
to feel unloved,
and unwanted.
It's all about me.

That has to change,
for the people who love me,
need me even,
for those I can help.
I have to change,
before it's too late.

Go Away!

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Go Away!

Confident
you've put it
to bed.
Your doctor
has weaned you
off meds.

Sure that
you're over
the worse,
the bastard
bites back,
like a curse.

A cure

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A Cure
I went to the doctor's, feeling slightly depressed,
Expecting to hear,"Over there, get undressed,
Take two pink pills with your food, three times a day,
There was nothing else? Okay, go away!"

But she listened instead, said I could take up blogging,
I protested,"It's cold, and I'm too old for jogging."
"No, blogging, you fool, we are talking website,
And let's check your ears, because something's not right."

So, I started a blog called Calamity Jane,
Where I talked through my problems and made my views plain.
Folk began to engage and I soon had a group
Of followers, faithful, who kept in the loop.

Others dropped out, which was not unexpected,
A handful were blocked when I got disrespected,
On the whole, everybody was kind and supportive,
Even posts not thought through, which were frankly abortive.

Of course, I now know, no matter the weather
We are all of us in this mad life together,
My knowledge and tolerance have improved somewhat
And best thing of all, I now laugh a lot.

Depression

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Depression

When death
is a looked forward to
release from pain,
then mortality
becomes
almost humane.

Black Dogs

Dauphy: I’m a bit upset this morning.

Hobbo: Why, what’s up?

Dauphy: That Winston Churchill bloke who you like so much.

Hobbo: What about him?

Dauphy: He used to get depressed.

Hobbo: So he did, yes.

Dauphy: Well, I’ve found out that he called his depression ‘The Black Dog’. That’s not very nice is it?

Hobbo: He didn’t mean anything by it. He loved dogs. It was just a metaphor?

Dauphy: He met a what?

Hobbo: It was his way of externalising it. Making it less scary.

Dauphy: Do you do the same when you get depressed.

Hobbo: I do, yes, but you are the black dog who lifts my mood and gets me out of that depression. Listen at this poem.

Black Dogs

This black dog inside my head,
Makes me sad, depressed.
My black dog, who's just been fed,
Is my best pal. I'm blessed

Dauphy: Aw, that’s nice.

Hobbo: Feeling better now?…

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