If depression were a month,
it would be March. The sky
is a grayscale Van Gogh, turbulent, bled
of color. The light
hurts the eyes. The ceaselessness
wounds the soul. 31 days
of other months.
I wrote this draft as part of National Poetry Writing Month. I hope to collect these works for a mixed media/writing piece I am working on entitled Love Letters to My Brother in Prison.