I am fine, Until . . .
That gentle voice - pretending helpfulness
Maliciously whispers
In my inner ear
And suddenly my world is shaken to the roots

In the smoke of its lies I am almost convinced.

My friends are
Untouchable strangers
Who only tolerate my presence
because telling me to *******
Would be awkward for them.

My intelligence dissolves
Until I am nothing more
Than the fool that inspired
every blond joke ever invented.

I become a nuisance
Even to myself
And wonder why I should
even bother
Trying to make it to 50

Sometimes I try to fight back,
Using reason and light humor
To beat back the dark monster.
But even though I can usually force it
back into its dank hole,
It mocks me while backing off
And shoots a parting remark before
Sliding into the depths
To await its next opportunity at my sanity.
And I am left
hurt and confused.
Trying to clean the doubt out of my mind
As if it were a small bird rescued from an oil spill.

I wish I could
take you to a place
Where
I could hold
Your hand
In Public
And no one
would care . . .

Tip the glass to my lips.
Cunning eye and trembling fingers
watch the sick-green liquid slide
passed clenched white teeth.
They stain with the flow
Across the tongue and Down, Down, Down,
into my very soul.
My chest hitches.
I cough in surprise
- or pain.
You cannot tell for sure . . .
Our eyes lock,
Surprised wonder meets lusting orbs of excitement.
As the burning courses through my limbs
You lean closer, intent on every agonized detail.
A wicked grin chases across your face
when the tremors finally cease.
My head falls back.
The world goes black.
And then . . . at last - there's peace.

You long to fill the ache in your soul.
You fear to speak to your friends;
Lest they judge, scoff, or shun you for it.
Your body cries out to be comforted.
Just the touch of another human being
would lessen the pain.
But you fear to reach out,
lest someone calls you crazy.
Nothing cures forever
and the dull void makes you its *****.
Until even the bullet,
the bridge over the river,
the drugs,
the rope,
the blade . . .
Looks like your only friend.
For what is life without purpose?
And what is purpose but the need to be needed?

Nothing is familiar

Yet . . .

It is Home.