August To November Poem by M. A Heathcote

August to November
It's a game, just when that old depression
Will hit and knock me for six again.
They say it's seasonal & they call it (SAD) .
How right they are, but Doc, this isn't a fad.
Feeling awkward, feeling bad, quite mad.
August to November
It's a game, just when that old depression,
That depression of mine will hit and strike me down again.
As black holes go, this one is the crappiest.
There isn't anything worse or blacker.
Wished at times, sadly, I had some form of incurable cancer.
August to November
It's a game just the same; it leaves me ashamed.
How I couldn't tolerate any more pain
They say it's seasonal, and they call it (SAD) .
How right they all are, but I won't be glad when it's passed.
More down-to-earth and sadness-taxed, I-just-say 'I've had it.'