I wrote this poem about people who struggle with seasonal depression. It is something I feel is much more common than often assumed, and it doesn’t have to be a serious medical condition in order for it to be important. In my life I have been close with people who have experienced it in some form, and so from their descriptions I wrote this poem.
Clouds grow dark and the nightmare begins.
A long forgotten box pulled from the attic,
smiling nutcrackers go up on a dusted old shelf.
Leaves float to the ground, candle light dances.
So beautiful
So peaceful
So perfect.
Too
perfect.
The air is heavy
with anticipation.
Children sing, fire
crackles in a grate.
Dread is brewing
in the pit of my stomach.
Creeping, choking, consuming
Dread.
I can’t ignore it.
My thoughts are cloaked in the darkness
I can feel it tugging at my feet
like a sheet covering me, suffocating me,
dragging me down.
My mind is a barren tree stripped of its leaves.
You promised this year would be better, I say.
But my mirror is no longer a reflection I trust,
It’s a black hole that pulls me in,
a void, just dust.
The nutcrackers’ smiles aren’t smiles they’re threatening sneers.
Hollow grins that whisper my fears.
This is all a lie.
My room once filled with music and light,
is now my only solace in which I escape the nightmares within.
This isn’t happening, I say.
Also a lie.
Even I am oblivious to my own deceit.
I give in to the sheets pulling me down
and I await the fateful spring that will relight my flame.
I watch from above as my figure laughs and dances like the rest.
They can’t know.
Why would they care?
This is all a lie anyway.
What’s one more?
Please just let the winter end.