I will write loads this day.
Who knows if I’ll live to see an added day?
I’m no master of my life (don’t cry).
Just a folk. Nugatory. Eccentric. Queer.
I am. I just am. There’s no escape from that.  
Halt. She just came. She’ll not knock. No one does.
Already dizzy living this borrowed life.
Scars remain. Permanent. Just as precise as ever.
Therapy never works. I’ve not tried it though.
I hear plenty. I feel too. Once in a blue moon.
The shredding of outermost skin. Maybe to reach what I am.
I’ll only live when I’m dead. But this day. Today.
To not end it in a poem. Or death. I will truthfully say.
Tears are my comrades.
Unpleasant façade—dynasty.
Insecure feeling—hospice.
The closet feeling to death—my name.
Whisper it. Please.