Mental Illness at Christmas

I look about this December morn
my hair screams asunder
my graying stubble two days long
my clothes spread out like fallen leaves
brown and wrinkled
I somehow stumble about the ride
I bow down to the industrial clock
I really wish I could find a hole
The solstice gray it weighs me down
a heavy blanket over a gasping wick
It’s a blurring purple that I can’t escape
I’m done, I’m finished, it’s over