When I lay in bed below the moon,
And drift away into the land of night,
My thoughts and journeys merge into a tune.
I miss all of the songs I wish to write
In light of all what is missing in the day,
I yearn to understand all that I've missed;
Those lovely thoughts that once bestowed my brain
But vanished from my soul into the mist.
Yet if such imagination grasps me here,
And takes me far away from where I am,
Then death provides me not with such a fear,
But the bliss of knowing more than I can fathom.
          If my dying hand could only grasp the pen
          To tell you of my vision at the end.

He doesn't want to talk,
To them.
But,
He wants to talk.
He cries out in prose and song,
In the small hints of conversation,
The strings of a guitar is his only escape.
He paints vivid pictures of his pain, watercolours and the english language as his chosen medium.
His tissues are soaked in blood, drawn out by self-inflicted wounds.
He doesn't want their help,
Though he knows he needs help.
Not from them, not from friends,
For friends are too easily lost,
Scared away,
Pushed away by fear and anxiety.
A stranger is what he needs,
Someone who will see his pain and pass no judgement,
Who he can dispose of once the problem is solved,
Leaving no trace of his weakness.