It is hard to come back to something you once loved before. Poetry took up much of grey matter. That and much of all else I once loved was swallowed by that which plagues me and several others. Depression. I wrote this during a time when I was at the edge, literally and figuratively. Golden Gate Bridge, to be precise. I made phone calls to eight people, but no one picked up the phone, for various reasons (it was the middle of a school and work day), all of which are understandable. However, at that moment, I had never felt more alone and helpless. I turned that moment into a poem to encase that time in ink, never to be forgotten. There isn't much more I can say than "**** hits the fan and things get rough." I hope this year will be filled with fewer days of me crying and more days of me trying.