Maybe just

the obsessions, obsessions, confessions
                 Of an aging man
                         In exile ...


                    Goldengreen
                 Things Not Seen

Every insight is terrifying
Is what my psychiatrist said

It's the truth too
Terrifyingly wed

The revealed places
are formed in beauty
But the hidden places
Are formed in fright

I seek to find the Hidden
Herman Melville was quite right.

You've seen her
Headphones in
With music up
or in conversation with
ten people at once
She can't stand the silence.
The sound of her beating
Broken heart
is so maddening.
As soon as the lights all die
As soon as the music stops
As soon as the people leave
her heart breaks once more
under the crushing, knee snapping
weight of the silence.

The hand that penned those words was mine,
but the soul behind them
the crimson flame and silver tongue that spoke them
isn't me anymore.

I'm not her;
Hell I'm barely me.
I remember her
in the way one remembers a long lost friend.
Distantly  and with fond thoughts.
Those words are no longer my words
for I am not that soul.
I am a shell of who I was.
A broken, tired, warrior fought too long.
I've lost her hope her happiness.
I've watched  her dreams die.
I've given up everything she wanted.
I've changed

I don't know who I'll become  or where I'm going
but I'm not her anymore.

At least I'm writing again
even though it's sloppier
than kindergarten scribbles.

At least I'm writing again
even if it's darker
than a moonless January night.

At least I'm writing again
even if it's not
easing any pain.