Cloaked with
a false sense
of dignity
and importance,
I convince myself,
halfheartedly,
that if I can last
just one more night,
everything
will fall into place.

But with the dew,
the morning sun
evaporates
each drop of hope
I had mustered
in secret.  
Today
is the same as yesterday,
perhaps a little
worse.

I slip slowly
into irrelevance,
into the night
which I struggle with,
the night which
I now know well.

Silence
is pure
and beautiful.
One can make
such powerful
statements with
silence.
I do not need to ask
if I am wasting their time,
or if I am boring,
their silence
answers all my questions.

Give me strength
to act boldly
or courage
to endure myself,
I do not know
which to ask for,
for I cannot have both.

The drops of mist from crashing falls
descend upon my face
and scatter in the whirling breeze
to dance in playful grace.

I yearn only to be
understood,
each action
decipherable,
each sentiment
understandable.
I do not yearn to be loved,
just understood.

Tonight,
I dread to sleep.
My fingers are restless,
they yearn to write,
but alas,
I have nothing to write.

It is not that I have been bled dry,
it is just I have not lived.
To sleep,
to live,
it seems that
I am unable to do either.

What would a good man do?
Surely
more than I,
no?