Lying in my bed as if I were dead.
Does this mean that I’m required to continue this
as a rhyming poem?
I think not, just as I think there’s no reason
I should have to explain why I’m in bed at 12:42 p.m.
looking out through my front window at the tree
whose leaves remind me of an elephant whose big head
and eyes are staring at me through the glass.
And so I confess to the elephant that I’m in bed
because I’m feeling depressed and don’t feel motivated
to do anything but lie here and wait for it to diminish
which is pretty much what I’ve been doing
with sadness and depression all my life.
Even after years of therapy I still haven’t mastered the black dog,
as one writer, whose name I forget, called his depression.
Thinking of depression as a black dog with crazed eyes,
vicious looking teeth, and drool coming down its mouth
is an appropriate metaphor for my own depression,
which diminishes more quickly if I don’t try to fight it. . .

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