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


over shrapnel

of dreams

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. 

One Comment Add yours

  1. cymone simmons says:

    I like the shrapnel of dreams part……and here I thought your life was better then mine.

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