Blue Like This

When I’m blue like this,

my stomach boils like a pot on the stove,

churning sick and desperate.

This is the future.

This is the past.

This is permanent.

This room is a prison

I don’t want to leave.

I’ve been institutionalized.

The real world has no place for me.

It offers no comfort,

gives me no love.

Someone takes a dinner fork and

scratches my brain with it,

like a DJ cutting a record.

There’s no one to blame.

There’s no one on this planet

except me and

I don’t belong here.

(I guess that’s why I’ve always got the blues.)

Blue like this,

blue like this,

blue like that,

like always.

-Copyright Timothy Downs


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