I have awoken at an early hour, Early morning or earlier than I want, but the gathering has begun. It appears in clusters as they say, as the pain gently taps, almost an absent thought, but if not aware, taking over all focus or any thoughts beyond the pain. I see the dark on the other side of the blade as I look over the edge of the crevasse trying not to go too far into the depth of my pain. It has been many years with a dance of doctors, drugs, along with a little experimentation along the way. A form of self-imposed self-medication. Avoiding the dark on of that side is to avoid the doctor's opiates advise.

The thirsty throat of my thought never lets me think
It swallows up each idea into the dead mass of depression
Selecting what joys to **** dry each day
Headaches and hangovers help me forget my forgetfulness
The remiss panic attacks assist my fugue state
Then my own failure and impending irrelevance does me the honor
Of piercing the center of my skull like a rhino's horn
Grateful I feed it my fears and futilely fake freedom for my family
They can’t know, they have problems I know, I wont let it show,
Friends, whether fake or “for real” worry for me,
Disgraceful
Im not some sappy sonofabitch looking for sorrow
Just wake me when I’m already late and disappointing you tomorrow

Hearing the deafening static in my mind
Every time I get motion sick
Arguing siblings who can't be mature
Dead of night where a thunderstorm rages on
After a really long, hard, cry
Concentrating too ******* too many things at once
Harmless basketball headed fast for cranium
Eating or drinking nothing for too long

I think of him when its raining and the weather is gloomy and the clouds come in the surround me just like he did for a short, short while.

I imagine he is sitting somewhere in New York right now drinking some awful Gin and Tonic drink , writing something about some girl in a bar.

Or he's walking with his jacket high up over his neck day dreaming of his long lost Juliet or maybe he's scheming something more like Macbeth.

I like to think he thinks of me from time to time, the girl he sent poems to on Valentines Day, the girl he talked about loving the ocean more than life.

I know it's a bit narcissistic and a bit conceited but I like to think he know's I think of him from time to time.

When La Vie En Rose comes on and when I'm walking down the freshly rained on streets humming a tune.

When I am alone in my room contemplating how I couldn't make things work with good people or when I re read those poems I keep hidden away in my closet.

I imagine he's sitting in New York at some trendy, dive bar, making friends with the bartender telling stories about his life.

I imagine he's writing something about a girl he's currently in love with and the features that makes him swoon because one day he will give those poems to her for Valentines day as well.

I imagine that the day he finds the Juliet to his Romeo- he won't need to think of the girl whose too far away and in love with the ocean anymore.

Waging a war in my head
I don't know why I'm not dead
It hurts to think
Wishing the memories sink
Do or don't do I dare not try
For most thoughts are of suicide
People say they know how you feel
But do they know the deal
the bargain you made
But still having the person fade
What are you willing to give
So a love one may live

I can stare blankly.
I have mastered the art.
Feelings evade me,
I swept them into the dark.
Now I persuade me,
Run away from your heart.
Keep running long into the morning.
Never saying goodbye before you depart.
Run away but not too lively.
Remember, you must keep up with your art.