The Map Is Not The Territory
Eskimos have a hundred words for snow.
Here in the land that made dysfunctional famous
we have one word for one thousand realities:
depression.
open your eyes to the faded ceiling
stare without interest
fall asleep again
rock on the toilet
stare at the razor on the sink
teetering on the edge
walk through a crowd
stare ahead fixedly
ignore all the saw-edged
whispers of your name
walk through a crowd
hearing nothing
my bones have turned to concrete
my flesh bruises itself on them
I do not touch
I do not taste
my body is a feather
anchored in nothing
I will never stop weeping
I will never cry again
rock and bone have turned villain
I am all that is wrong with Life
Daddy came in at midnight
it has been midnight ever since
I lost my Daddy to cancer
I am lost
everything is fine
and I don't give a damn
I need more than a hundred words.
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