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Poem 13: Freeloading Depressive

 

Freeloading Depressive


I need my best friend’s guidance now.

I’d do it myself but I don’t know how.

I’d ask him but he’s now so mute

that it isn’t fun, and isn’t cute.

He needs to get out of bed

and wash that greasy hair on his head.

He needs to clean the house a bit

and stop being so comfortable in his own shit.

He just lays there in bed all day

as though he knows no other way.

I’m all alone. He won’t pay his rent.

I can’t get out of him a single cent.

He won’t leave unless I call the cops

but otherwise he’ll just lay there drinking Schnapps.

He takes pills but only the ones he likes

and complains about how my voice has spikes

in it that pierce him deep inside.

Last night I really really tried.

I told him he had to find a shelter

because he’d turned my life helter-skelter

and he said “Later.” It’s always later.

He isn’t even the best debater.

He doesn’t move or say much but that says lots

along with the sink full of dirty pans and pots.

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