Anxiety is seeing crimson everywhere you look:
Like the First Red Scare,
it’s living in constant fear
of communism or anarchy--
too much control or not enough of it.
It’s all the tension of a Cold War--
using up available resources,
preparing for bloodshed
that may never come.
Depression is see-through, transparent, and clear:
Glassy like a dirty window,
stained from years
of desperate fingerprints--
trying to get out and play.
It’s ice melting into a puddle--
colorless, but palpable,
Void of hue or pigment.
No light for a reflection to transmit.
If I was given the choice,
I’d pick the crimson fear every time--
the cherry cheeks and brick-red voices,
merlot meals and scarlet poisons.
I’d choose bloody paranoia
over diluted waters,
the loudness of a red fire hydrant
drowning out the apathy.
Because the only thing worse than a mono-color life,
is living with no color at all.