Post-depression mornings are often so torrid.Many indeed are quite nasty and horrid.You struggle some mornings to get out of bed,So you lie there and suffer and wish you were dead.But somewhere inside does a neurone ignite:"Get up, you idiot,...

A dead or dying treeI’m sure just spoke to meAbout a secret skill called “letting go.”And further on my morning walkA leaf fell down to have a talkTo tell me what I certainly should know. In whispers soft as newborn’s...

When I was young, you came with your black mouth agape and your blacker heart pounding with anticipation.I feared for my sanity or my life.So I tried to drown you in drink, in powder,in the temporary warmth of another...