Chase the sun in it's arc.
East to West, avoid the dark.
No matter the amount of light I keep,
my own darkness from within seeps.
To stain the brief respite I find,
deep inside my poetic mind.
From my thoughts to hand to pen,
onto  paper, then rewrite again.
Each revision a shade more grey,
all the colors bled away.
From a wound that refuses to heal,
taking with it my ability to feel,
anything but real anger towards ,
the world in general and what it affords.
At those times it's not me in print,
it's these eleven years in pain spent.
Pretending that I give a dang,
there are no apologies, it's now who I am