I’m seeing another psychiatrist
tomorrow to solve
a more than a decade problem
of sleepless nights, anxiety
badly harmonising with my soul’s
music, and depression feeding
on my energy like a leech,
getting fat while I become
emotionally malnourished
and eat and smoke and drink,
hoping pork chops, Marlboro Reds
and wine will become a balm
for the emptiness inside.
I know there’s no cure for
what I have, and it will haunt me
all my life, like it did my father,
and his father before him.
Three generations groping in
the light for glasses to help us
see clearly. Ragtime making my
grandfather walk away and not dance,
Motown addling my father’s mind
with superstitions, engendering
sharp paranoia that Hendrix with
his tongue guitar playing and the
hippies with their free love couldn’t
solve, 90s Alternative sounding
too much like grunge to me,
and Incubus and Evanescence
evoking crazy regret and maladaptive
daydreaming. Three generations
of madmen, struggling for an
identity outside outcast or shameless
or freak or fool. I sent my father
Lost to Apathy by Dark Tranquillity
today and he wept. I’ve never known
a man weeping after
hearing melodeath
growling and twin guitars. He said,
Look at the shell I’ve become,
and I’ve made you a shell, too.
Soon the battle is over!
And couldn’t speak, emotion flooding
him, and so I sent him Unwell
by Matchbox 20, the best anti-stigma
song, and I can only hope he’ll find
his way, but what about me?
Will I ever find what I’m looking for?
Will I kiss her in the moonlight
and tell her I love her and mean it?
Will I feel alive when I see the
sun echoing over the waters,
its orange-red tune
resonating with me
and making me say,
tomorrow’s tomorrow,
but thank you for today.
Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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