I Feel Ya, Buddy


You don’t get a say

In a manic depressive’s ways

Until you’ve been to

The End’s of the Earth

Completely lost at sea

Drowned, hurled back in

Then torn apart at the seams


Once you’ve come back to rest

And you breech, gasp for air

A whip-lash kick to the teeth

Will send you spiraling back there.

To the midst of the soul-crushing depression

That laps, pants and drools.

It peels back your skin

Vicious claws used as tools.

Picking epidermis




In such a way, you would rue

That sick twisted day

In which this demon itself

Chose its possession

To be you.


9 thoughts on “I Feel Ya, Buddy

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