Somewhere in this crawl space that we call a brain,

No coincidence they always keep the crazies in the attic,

I suppose that’s where my head is now; 

Oh wow- yeah -we’re all insane.

Sells profanity to all the taste buds...

Watch the criminality of pessimism breed.

The voices will savor their generous deeds.

It's all catching up. Tumble weed dreams:

Some days I want to scratch out the color,

Yellow, Yellow, Yellow...chasms turn dead red,

But somehow no one hears.

Yellow, Yellow, the trees too,

But somehow their’s no greenish pink... true.

Yellow, Yellow, Yellow... sip up all the blue in you,

But somehow our calls aren’t getting through.

The attic is turning black,

You’re all turning your backs.

I guess the lights are out.

I guess my head is out.


Veronica Russell

This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Need to talk?

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