It's still and calm
Patiently waiting under your palm.

It's dark, black blood.
It wishes to break from your restraint
And start a flood.

And truth be told it completely would.

It's dark, black blood.
The blood deep within that you will never let Bleed out.
The blood deep within you that no one else Knows about.

It hasn't flown for years.

It's dark, black blood.
If only others knew the power it does hold
Its pain always shown, never told.

Yet you've never seen it.

It's dark, black blood.
And it's inside everyone
Patiently waiting for it's time to run.

Streak down your cheek,
On a day dreary and bleek.

Erupt from underneath,
Rush between your teeth.

Yet it never will.
It's too dangerous for each of us
To ever let it spill.

It's dark, black blood.

I think I'm my worst psychiatrist.
While a good psychiatrist would diagnose the problem,
I create excuses for why the problem is there.
And then I create excuses for the excuses.
And then I create excuses for the excuses that originally excused the excuse.
And then I confuse myself with my own logic resulting in more anger, more confusion, and you guessed it, more excuses.

And ironically, this entire poem is just a big excuse.

I don't want to face my problems,
Knowing that they are nothing to worry about.
I'd rather cower at the "power" they hold,
Than try my hand at solving them.

But my hands are smooth, unbattered extensions of the very essence of me.
According to every person and history ever,
I have it perfectly.

And my hands aren't used to venturing within my inner workings,
Searching through the slimy and greasy machinery for the root of the problem.
No, my collar is white and my slacks are clean from top to bottom.

From time to time as the sun no longer shines,
My hands become restless.
They yearn to take a look within, just a quick little check in.
And nevertheless, I confess, I allow my hands
Entrance.

As always, I wince at the pain. It shocks me through my core. My eyes cease seeing, I begin to question my being, while my face is dripping in tears.
My surgery continues on
for seemingly years.

There's no novocaine or amnesia to numb the fiery emotions that release from my body.
Instead I'm forced to endure the awkward combination of these combatting feelings.

Then I finally rip from my innards the tight grasp of my hands.
They breach the surface covered in dark, black blood.

I don't feel much better afterwards, no I really don't.

I just create one final excuse.
That helps me wither away into sleep.

I know myself as much anyone else
But I don't want to admit,
Just as much as anyone else,
That I need help.