I write tonight.
Nothing great or in pretty lines,
Just a little pain of mine.
Of loss and heaviness.
Some days I can forget
But in wee hours I drop the lies and gaze at the little things.
Love lost, people gone, desires unmet, and the madness of the mundane.

It opens questions so I write.
Often it's to a friend, my never reader
But when it's right I write for someone to see
Perhaps for me and partly for others
For those that need
A reminder that even alone it's never completely so.
I write of a little pain,
With this in mind:
Pain is a drug that runs in my soul and maybe that is why I never let it go.