Poems

Introductory poem
This poetry book probably won't help
It's not a self help thing
It's just nice to know that someone out there
Share your suffering

Bed
There's a certain comfort when in bed
The world does not exist
No deadlines, fears or interactions
Bed presents no risk

Tablets
Little round powder bombs
You control how i feel
But if my emotions are synthetic
How do I know what's real?

Blue
Feeling blue?
Are you?
Me too
But what to do?

If I grew
Would my view
Be anew
Could i brew
A positive skew

There's a few
Damned with the hue
How on earth do we get through?

Lean on who
Believes in you
There may not be an end in view
But just be strong let you be you
May be blue but lighter hues
One day look back and say i grew
But just relax while we work it through
I am the walrus, coo coo cachoo

In and out
It's that little step that stands within
Going out and staying in
In gives comfort
Out is unknown
But in presents the problem
Of being alone

Sleep
The head hits the pillow
But the lights remain lit
This attempt at sleep
Is blatant counterfeit

The minutes lap the hour
Birds greet the sun
The old day hasn't ended
Yet another has begun

Sleep, sweet unconsciousness
Has become a chore
Turn off all the lights
Windows matching door

Leaflet
This expression put in  a question
Is coming from your health profession

Feeling aggression? suffer supression?
Hold your head! You may have depression

This publication lacks communication,
These images are assaulting
Head in hands near decapitation
This depiction is insulting

Stop standing on eggshells
Stop being 'metaphorical'
Communicate to a person
Don't make it categorical

How are you
How are you
Just popping out for a few
No, really, how ARE you
I'm cool..
I'm not trying to be rude
I'm fine... Dude
But are you sure?
Do you want me to be blue or...
No no no
Ok i'm gonna go
And you are ok?
What do you want me to say?
Just that you're fine
MYYYYY
not a miserable sod
GOOODDDD

Care
Try to muster up some care
But mother Hubbard's cupboards bare
These balloons are deflated
These flowers lackluster
Maybe my brain is turning to custard