Read Poem: The Books We Choose to Read, by Steven Valentine

I was always a fan of classic stories.
but when a man cries depression,
The boy who cried wolf doesn’t seem so interesting anymore.

When tears tumbleweed down the cheek of your father,
the thought of ravenous barking things doesn’t arouse the senses much;
for you know your father’s lockjaw can be tagged-in at any moment now.

We will risk him reciting an obituary for his own voice.
We will risk losing the sound that echoes “survival” after the
tear ducts are patched up again.
We will lose it and never realize it was there in the first place.

When your father cries depression,
does he even speak the word?

And when he doesn’t,
will you know he’s speaking volumes
when silent on the couch from sun up
to sun down or will you scowl at the lethargy?
Is it not easy to hear the screaming
from the cold pillow…