Kolasch.com

I was going to say I feel like a broken record—
skipping on depression, depression, depression.

Picture daisies in a field and me, slightly overweight
with long hair and a beard, skipping through them.

It’s that, but not happy. Instead—

I pretend to be a daisy, firmly planted
in the ground and waiting for the sun to come out.

It’s shy, like my ability to initiate sex.
And the dirt around my ankles is dry and sandy—

not the kind of thing to offer support.

I was going to say I sound like a broken record—
skipping on depression, depression, depression,
forsaken.

I think we can safely move past the daisies at this point.
The metaphor doesn’t work, and honestly?

I’m not sure I do anymore either.

I can’t even pretend to be on the mattress,
sunken in sheets with you riding wild—

a daisy flaying in the storm and losing leaves.
But the image just isn’t there, is it? I mean, there’s the skip.

But which foot goes forward? Am I right or left?

I was going to say I am a broken record—
skipping on depression, depression, depression,
but coiled so tightly like a clock I could explode—

a symphony of brass breaking as gears and springs sproing
into every direction but mine.

Am I even left in the middle? With not even a daisy
or the touch of you to pretend at care?

When all I have left is the lubrication
and I don’t even know what to do with that anymore.

JKolasch