The last post- Sometimes, It's Less Than Always, was the most recent thing that I've written. That was one of those moments where I've got to put some things in words so that I can make sense of them. Which brings me to my next point and why I don't have new shit.
Atypical Depression is a subtype of Major Depression notable for intense mood reactivity and personal rejection sensitivity causing impaired social functions blah blah blah, I'm not a shrink. (and heightened cravings for carbohydrates-that's not relevant but does explain my gaudy love of the gummi bear).
So I said that to say this: My mood, as of late, has been pretty decent which is good for getting out, going running, drinking responsibly, and being almost entertaining to be around. All of those things are terrible conditions for writing poetry. Thusly, old poems. I hope you still like it, precious reader, because I still like you.
When we were little, we use to stand as high as we could
on a hill and wave at prisoners in the yard.
She would hold my hand and whisper,
“What if they get free” and I’d say, “Don’t worry
lil lady, I’ll protect you,” and call her a damsel
even though we didn’t know what it meant.
She’d punch me in the arm and tell me she was a girl
who didn’t need a boy.
Well, now she’s a woman-
burning like the highway sun and she still doesn’t need a boy.
I hold her hand and I joke
that we would be great together
and she says,
“A good man is hard to find”
“I need a guy just like you.”
and I joke
that there’s only one of me and she kisses me
on the cheek and asks if spaghetti’s okay, because it’s all
she knows how to cook
and I tell her it’s exactly what I wanted
and I only care that she’s the one who made it
So we eat and we laugh and we dance
and I can’t help but wonder where I am
that I’m so hard to find.