This Season I Fall

This Season I Fall

Static fills my head,
barking dog, background noise,
overwhelming,
Like some embodied entity,
in control of my brain.
Seething invasively into the inaction of pain.
Something's all stuck in my brain,
some cog in the wheel's bent awry.

If I begin to think, my head hurts.
My eyes don't want to see.
Nothing will turn on in this state.
Like some broken down old car,
repaired until it can be no more.
I sit disheartened,
past the point
of giving it the gas,
for just one more try.

This emotional solace
is more than a blank mind,
It's the anti-psychotic kind
of medicinal existence,
prescribed for occasions such as this.

"This is best," the doctor
nods to himself in agreement,
Yet my rebellious screams
fall on a closed door, closed mind.

"Yes, drugs, I need. But these
Are the wrong kind.
Look in my chart. Look at my history!"

He looks, picking up his pen,
noting to his future self,
how his patient has "lost it" today.

While I emote with Kleenex boxes,
grabbing and throwing,
just because it's my present whim,
Undoubtedly showing up in his files as a sin.

"Damn stupid doctor."

So I pay my bill,
Appoint with him for another day,
Several months away.
Still mad as hell
As I'm walking away.
This was not one of our better sessions.
He's respected what I know of myself
Until today,
When he says he's going away for three weeks.

"No shit! You need a vacation
on the other side of the world.
Maybe you can hear, and see better
when you return."

"Better luck next time, Bimbo."

Seasonal uncontrollable emotional
Fog, smog, stuck in a mucky bog,
Brain twisting upon itself
In defense of itself.

The whir of the tornado, the roar of the train,
They cloud my thinking,
They cloud my brain.
No one can see it but me,
and usually he,
who can fix it with a prescription pad.

Now falling into
the seasonal series of misfortunes
I'm prone to in life.
Knowing they won't be tamed.
Instead, they will flame up
Into hell fires of life,
Burning up my spirit in spite
Of my passion to hold on to me.

With no control, my brain wanders,
Races, meanders, obsesses,
On those things that will bring me down,
Until depression has full control.

I will be in that emotional hole I dig,
Deep under the ground of reality,
Until breathing is barely existing,
When the sun finally makes its spring entrance.

My spirit rattles in fear,
Knowing that comfort,
Will not come easily,
Wisely may not be an option.

When the leaves fall,
And the trees become bare,
I too, find myself wasted there,
Disconnected.

Hoping the cold winds,
And the Acts of God,
Don't leave me barren of life,
Sullen, fading, paling,
Into more of the gray of winter.