Today I think
I saw a peculiar object on
the other side of the coal window—
a ghost perhaps. Quietly it stood,
still like my mouth. Now I’m combating
the quiet. I will soon speak, you see.

I will write loads this day.
Who knows if I’ll live to see an added day?
I’m no master of my life (don’t cry).
Just a folk. Nugatory. Eccentric. Queer.
I am. I just am. There’s no escape from that.  
Halt. She just came. She’ll not knock. No one does.
Already dizzy living this borrowed life.
Scars remain. Permanent. Just as precise as ever.
Therapy never works. I’ve not tried it though.
I hear plenty. I feel too. Once in a blue moon.
The shredding of outermost skin. Maybe to reach what I am.
I’ll only live when I’m dead. But this day. Today.
To not end it in a poem. Or death. I will truthfully say.
Tears are my comrades.
Unpleasant façade—dynasty.
Insecure feeling—hospice.
The closet feeling to death—my name.
Whisper it. Please.

I'm new here in HePo; the question on what the most accurate emotion i should be surrounding my dome in is baffling me.

It feels relieving (or mayhaps that feeling you get when you first step on a room full of new faces and the thought that maybe, just maybe you belong here darts in your head) to see many spiffing wordsmiths who're just as vulnerable as i always supposed myself to be but at the same time I feel helpless for maybe if i were a little more confident, i would give feed backs, try to talk to and send virtual hugs and comfort to people who're hurting and are low in spirits, such as me.

It's all too much.

But as a simple reminder for everyone who sees this, not to mention myself, here is a beautiful quote i stumbled upon in a blog many moons ago.

"It may get worse before it gets better but it will get better."

Be patient. Be heedful.

Try--try to not give up.