It’s sunny. But the skies are grey.
Food tastes bland.
The body aches.
Hard to get moving.
Nothing is fun.
Nothing has purpose.
What’s the point?
It comes in episodes.
Like a cold or a flu.
A few days. Or weeks.
You never escape it.
Always it will be there.
Waiting to pounce.
When triggered.
Or just because.
No one can see it.
There’s a stigma.
The meds are a pain to get.
The pharmacy. Blek.
Some people judge.
Others do not.
Some offer support.
Some want you to just stop.
As if it were so simple.
God I wish it were.
But it’s not.
It makes employment hard.
When you never want to work.
Because you are too sad.
Yet you must.
Because you are needed.
That need keeps you here.
Family. Kids.
You keep going for them.
You must always. For them.
Poetry
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