Depressed Poem by Nana S. ACHAMPONG

I used to anticipate the rain on my brain
Streaking lightly, comforting, the confused winds therein,
Like deliberate dabs, delicately intended for primed canvas.
But not this moment…no, not the rain;
Its constant drumming wrenches out bile oppressed
From the very inside of my anxious, depleted gut
And my passions squeal helplessly into an unheard din.

I’ve always basked in the benevolent light
Spread freely, dependably daily, by the providence of life,
Kindling in us those fiery tongues that wake and energize...
Until this moment…that is, the light:
The engulfing vigor which prods and nudges,
And drives and projects, even as we wallow at the nadir,
Today cloaks my senses and embalms my being.

It’s all dark in here, and damp, and soiled
I feel trapped inside my entombing frame,
By the same sensuous skin that used to pleasure-
Not this time, not the darkness, not my pelt.
My heart is sinking in a tortured fluid of despair;
Not even the strings of Farka Toure can save me.
I am stripped of my feelers in these dank pits.

The idea of love always warmed my ever-eager heart
In bed, on soles, in life, in songs; it spread smiles
By lifting each above himself, buoying the spirit.
But not today, the love and all, not today -
I quake from fear that a stranger will bless me, in truth,
When all I crave in deed is just to lie morose,
Close my life like yesterday’s sports pages, and…yield.