Where is my comfort? Where is my ease? I am hopeless, or so it seems. I face many a trial and bitter deed, yet no one comes in search for me. It is hard to go on through all these seas, where is my King to him shall I plea! I do not see him standing next to me? All the while, the others do make a mockery. Can anyone come to help me? Can anyone see that I am just a human in misery? I get broken, I get hurt, yet no one comes to help; instead, they say eat dirt. And I am left alone to speak to myself and mutter, sputter, and stutter over poems that no one could ever utter for they do not know them. Cause they could not read them. Cause I did not write to them. Now see where this has lead me? Writing all this poetry, it will be the end of me, for I love to write then read all these sentences that plead for different things from you and from me. Some for courage others for love and how I know not what the day is made of. And this poem, my dear friend, is about the dark mood with which I now doubt will last much longer since life is now fading from the scene.