Bare Facts (Poetry)

I think I’ll cut my hair off —
right down to the skin
then, perhaps, someone will guess
the kind of mood I’m in.

I’m sick to death of hearing
stale platitudes and lies.
Not that all their bullshit’s
really much of a surprise.

There’s no one left who listens.
They’re deaf as well as blind
for no one wants to hear what’s on
a crazy woman’s mind.

The truth’s a threadbare blanket
no use to keep me warm
and words fade from the paper
once the page gets loose and torn.

When thoughts go drifting aimless
and depression’s here to stay
it’s time to shave my hair off —
bare my head. No more to say.