You know, I started writing poetry
As a writing exercise
A way to clear away the fog
That doused creative sparks inside

Yet I found they’ve told more stories
That my stories ever did
Tales of love, of life, of loss
And that loneliness within

There is something therapeutic
About letting all that out
Of giving voice to those darker thoughts
Writing down those nagging doubts

It seems so self-indulgent
When I watch the daily news
And hear of lives cut way too short
When all I do is muse

But being stuck in this endless life
It’s hard, I cannot lie
It used to be so much easier
With trusted friends by my side

They say happiness, it loves a crowd
And my crowd has shrunk by one
When a ‘friend’ can call you exhausting
You doubt they’re the only one

So, I have found myself stepping back
And keeping thoughts within
I will bear my burdens in private
If having problems is such a sin.

So no, my dearest reader
Life hasn’t cut me slack
I’ve just decided to complain less
While I doubt those at my back

That’s the problem with depression
Its isn’t sadness, I’m just numb
I have reached my capacity for bullshit
And for trusting, I feel dumb

There was a time, not long ago
When I felt happy, I felt loved
Now I feel so very alone
Under this vacant winter sun

My lust for life has left me
That little spark has gone
And I find myself envying those
Who can end it or move on

I am guarded now, I never was
I’m a cynic, I’ve grown cold
And I dread the years as they yawn out
Until death can claim me old

So if my silence is unexplained,
consider yourself informed
That golden moment between complaints
will stretch forevermore