Monday, 22 September 2014


 I don't have a lot of happy poems.

 I write poetry when the mood takes me, and since I have depression, that mood is usually pretty sad, angry, or despairing.

 A distressing number of them revolve around self harm.

 This is far from the worst of those ones.

 The worst seems like a charming little stanza, right up until the last line. I find it jarring, and I'm the one who wrote it.

 I feel like this one, in contrast, is an accurate picture of how I felt at that moment in time.

 Hence the title.


                   Knives in the drawer
  Pills on the table   
     And me
          Sitting at the kitchen island
          Feeling sad
  And oh so tired        

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