If we'd lived like normal people-
All of this could have been avoided.
But we didn't.
We were nuts and desperate.
We couldn't help but create this
nothingness that drove us completely crazy,
sad,
empty.
Still, no one's desperation came close
to matching mine.
They all seemed to be able to go back to their lives.
They got scuffed up and they got on with it,
Only I seemed to be left behind,
crying and screaming,
wanting some satisfaction,
wanting to feel something.
I always sought solace in places
where I know, absolutely,
that it did not exist.

Is this what insanity feels like?

I need help.
I am falling on broken glass.
I am collapsing on myself.
I am shards of glass.
I am killing myself.

Though somehow,
I continue to hold on
for dear life.

The well-oiled clunk of padlocks
slotting smoothly home
for dark to close off
rooms to outside days
and droned opprobrium.

The morning shine that
carries breezes brimmed
with birdsong must await
the sliding click and clack
of opened blackout blinds.

Open to a bundled clump of
tumbled, crumpled, crass,
incessant, prickling,
self-reflective musings
binding me to doubt.

It is this lair wherein I
rest and find the peace of
reign; 'Tis here I manifest as
Father Time to forge a faulty
rise and set with blackout blinds.

How distressing this point is--
Stroking keys
but
letters seem transparent

My psyche
has
c
            o
            l
                     l
                               a
                   p
                       s
                      e
                              d

                          again.

black
is
bea uty-
f/u.l