Depression Poem by David Michael Jackson



His elbow rests on his knee and his chin is in

the palm of his hand

he fights off the urge for another drink or

another smoke or

another anything else that might

pretend to ease

that craving that

sense of waiting

he wipes his forehead with his palm and wishes the answers were there

but they are not there or

anywhere else

Hemingway took the cowards way out

leaving me here to state it plainly

life has no answers for you, pal

answers are not what we are here