Into the den of the wicked blackbird

and past my less fortunate peers,

I arrived in an orchard humming with growth

and the beauty I no longer possessed.


Through the thick branches and under their leaves-

who provided proof to skeptics

that come spring again she’d be productive-

and to a heavy halt I came.


Had I arrived, or was I still troubled?

Like my red and black pride-ink, permanent

in a condition that made me a puppet

to the callous claws of the smirking blackbird.


And so in the darkness I surrendered

to the smiles who mock my light.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741