I keep an old depression gown, slip it on from time to time
It warms me in the winter, then shades me from the shine
It smells a little musty, like my old bed back home
It hangs up in the wardrobe, I wear it when I’m alone
It’s tattered but it’s cosy, it fits me like a glove
It knows me better than myself, better than my love
It watches me wear ‘proper clothes’; a shirt, a tie, a smile
It patiently waits for my return in just a little while
It smothers me like a broken mother
It hoards me away like a jealous lover
It kills all that I want to do
It closes every door to you
It drags me to that single thought
It rings out clear like a gunshot
It holds me down there like concrete
It urges me to sweet defeat
It makes me cry in my daughters bed
Her princess drapes above my head
It traps me here where I must stay
Til I hear her voice ask me to play
“With 30 approaching last year I decided to start actually ‘publishing’ the scraps and shards of stuff I’ve been writing in pads rather than hoarding and picking over them for eternity. They’re not all fully formed but I think it will encourage me to be a bit more intentional about continuing if I have an audience (ain’t that always been the truth)”
