Late Night Rockstar...

Late Night Rockstar

Look through those paned windows,

Of the little white house on the hill.

See me there?

Living out my fantasies

In the wee hours of the morning

While the rest of the world sleeps?

Two a.m.

Is when I pretend I’m a rockstar,

And a dancer,

And a ballerina,

And a twenty year old,

Until my 58 year old eyelids

Remind me who I really am. 

Depression? Now That's Funny.

I’m sitting in my big windowed-room,

Simultaneously looking out over the straits

At the wind-chopped waters,

And at the tree branches moving in frenetic wind-dances,

When it suddenly occurs to me

That every depressed person I know,

Or have ever known--

That is,

Those who suffer regularly from extended bouts of significant depression

(And I have known many)--

Are profoundly funnier

Than any of the not-depressed people I know or have ever known.