Functioning Depressive - Poem by kevin larder
A Functioning depressive I hear my Doctor say,
And during lonesome moments; I wonder: how did I get that way.
I’m paid ok, busy, popular and kind,
But it’s only a “happy act”, that creeps easy from my mind.
My Endorphins should be rewarded with an Oscar or a Bafta,
My cry for help a siren, not bellowed from any rafter.
The smallest thing can trigger me, I’m irrational in my anger,
I examine wrists and speeding cars, I know I am in danger.
“Pull yourself together” an assault upon my ears,
Needing help is seen as feeble and the social role is clear.
“How brave he is, how stoic, mentally so strong’,
Allowing all others to look concerned and swiftly move along.
A Functioning depressive is what I may well be,
The twilight of my person, is that all you really see? .
I’m “getting by”, I do my bit, but it’s mostly phoney tough,
Just indulge me in distractions, they’re usually enough.
A functioning depressive is that really such a crime?
There’s many of us out there, in a darker world than mine.
I am legend, a tyranny of therapy,
But are the disillusioned really any better off than we?
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