This poem is about the comfy place a bed can be, when suffering from a clinical depression. Call it, your best friend. This is the poem My pillow.
I’m 28 and a social-worker working in rural India with adolescent girls on reproductive hygiene awareness and improvement. I am a poet and amateur sketch artist.
I share my work on Instagram, where I use the name Solitary Woodpecker
About the poem
Excess-sleeping is one of the many signs of clinical depression. Your bed becomes your most comfy place and your pillow, your best friend. It’s only through counseling and medication that such people can return to normality and good health. Most of the people fail to understand that depression is a real issue and not just make-believe or all-in-the-head kind of thing.
Myself, having been diagnosed with chronic depression and BLPD, I’ve been struggling with it and helping spread awareness about it through my poems.
I am not looking forward to your sympathy, just mere acceptance of this fact that depression is real and people suffering from it are very much real, too.
The poem is about what I’m telling my lover about my feelings of pain and despair when he is not around. About how he continues to remain oblivious to my inner turmoil and destitution and how I have found solace in my bed, talking to my pillow and sleeping over my problems.
My pillow doesn’t mind
shouldering all my bawl
as I drip of tears and sweat
reeking of stale beer and vodka.
It doesn’t turn its face away
on mornings I drool
from being chased
by the monsters under my bed.
My sheets are quiet
when tucking me in
at times consoling
my broken, bleeding heart.
Only you’re never there
after the punches and blows are over
and the night and I are left
with tragedies to moan
and scars to cover.