By Rick Williams
When depression rears its ugly head
gone is her will to climb from bed.
Helplessness as I stand near.
If I speak, what will she hear?
The best intentions, oft misread
make me wish I'd different, said.
I want to be her supportive rock
but how do I know when not to talk?
Actions, or lack thereof, lead me
to think that quiet is how I should be.
But if I'm wrong and don't say a thing
I'm called indifferent and feel her sting.
Sometimes it's like, every time
I say a thing I've committed a crime.
If it happens while we're in the car
I try conversation but don't get far.
Eventually I sigh and switch to mute
because no words came forth en route.
Turn music on? No, I don't dare
because that means that I don't care.
To play it safe I'm better off to be
completely quiet, as is she.
I can not begin to understand
the woe she feels and must withstand.
I only hope that one day soon
we can put her back in tune.
