Black Dog, Grey Fog

It’s been called the 'black dog'

By some writer I don’t recall

For me it’s a dense, grey fog

Rolling over me until I fall

When I’m down I can’t see the horizon for the night

And I can’t leave my bed though I know something isn't right

Like a pebble in a pond, the ripples flow out on and on

Everyone I know somehow damaged or put upon

There were times when I was truly happy

I can count them on my good hand

The rest of my life is melancholic

The future a landscape of the damned

The name should be changed from mental to brain illness

Because willpower can do nothing to thin the thickness

Of the weight that’s pushing down and down and down

Prescription chemicals inflate me just enough that I don’t drown

Sometimes I even envy the drinkers and the high

Because for a moment they can leave themselves behind

While spontaneous visions of self-harm dance and glimmer

I’m trapped inside a gnawing agony of body and of mind

There were times when I was truly happy

I can count them on my good hand

The rest of my life is melancholic

The future a landscape of the damned

People say they are depressed when they are a little blue

They’d never use that term again if they really knew

That sometimes it appears the only way from pain

Is to shoot yourself, or drown in an sea of freezing rain

There were times when I was truly happy

I can count them on my good hand

The rest of my life is melancholic

The future a landscape of the damned