“Just choose to be happy,” you said,
“that’s all there is to it.”
But that idea won’t live in my head,
’cause my brain is washed in shit.
“It’s a chemical thing, you see,” they say.
It’s a medical issue; that’s granted.
For people like me, there’s really no way
to simply “bloom where you are planted.”
I know I’m no fun when my attitude’s crappy,
and I know you want to go dancing.
But it takes lots of work, this façade that looks happy,
and, frankly, it’s fucking exhausting!
One day a week I can fake a few hours;
One day a week I can smile.
But that, my dear, is the extent of my powers;
I can only pretend for a while.
So leave me alone; give me some solitude.
Don’t hold me tight; let me be.
Please believe that I don’t want to be rude;
I just want to go back to sleep.
– by C Eric Funston, 13 September 2014