Inchcock’s Ode to Depression

I am aware of my failings and depressions some of the time,

I thought I’d try to write them down into some sort of rhyme,

Guilt at not being able to sort out depression is ever present,

The fight to live with it is most certainly unpleasant.


The house is in a worse state than that of Steptoe and Son,

Dirt, untidy a mess naturally people will want to shun,

Damaged roof, cooker blew up rubbish I cannot remove,

The nagging guilt, that I just cannot manage to improve.


When I do find the spirit to try and clean it up a bit,

The arthritis angina or dizzy spells will prevent it,

Soon it feelings come into my ever rattling mind seems to split,

Later the guilt is magnified self loathing, I feel I’ll throw a fit,

But withdraw into myself, waiting for hope manifest or flit.


Confused all the time, my mind talking to me, castigating,

Telling me how pathetic I’ve become: For some hope I’m waiting,

To get relief from my late in life torment called depression,

But still I like to help others if I can, that’s some concession.


It seemed different when I was working and had a vocation,

Then the ailments mounted and slowly grew the frustration,

I’ve stopped even thinking about going on a vacation,

I’d love to be free of the fears the guilt and vexation.

Something inside surrenders, and I cower, hide ignore things,

My mind torments me with screeching violin strings,

Rasping out to me my faults and pathetic multiple failings,

It never stops reminding and nagging at me about these things.


Yobs appear outside my house, I run to the bathroom to hide,

Fears have arrived late in life, one time I would never have cried,

People in authority and shop-keepers now con me with ease,

I struggle at times with angina and Arthritic hands and knees,

The haemorrhoids, the ticker ulcer bladder, but I’m okay with these,

They are a fact, but depression is an unwanted mystery to me.


I try to get out on a walk 4-5 time a week,

Dodgy that with me always wanting a leak,

Feed the ducks in Nottingham, any company I can find,

For a while then, this depression I don’t give a mind.


Is there a mental aspect linked with this thing?

Some days I feel like I could actually sing!

I so love  to Facebook and do my blogging,

Reading what others create and are coping.


On this web I’m a different person and bold,

But times I fight depression that takes a hold,

Losing of course, I wondered as I grow old,

Can I buy a brain remould?

9 thoughts on “Inchcock’s Ode to Depression

  1. Notwithstanding a difficult subject to tackle – more so that it is a first person subject matter you write of – this is a truly cleverly constructed piece making use of both your wit and observational genius. Any and all on whom the black dog feast should read this.

  2. Know the feeling. Very brave to say it out loud. Many pages of my journal (now approaching its forty-third birthday) express similar doubts and fears and the finding of Sorrow’s Springs. I absolutely agree with Mike’s comments. I call this, in my own writing (and, indeed, life) the Broken Clown Syndrome. Sending you a hug of fellow feeling. Ali

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