I'm bottoming out again
My masochist atmosphere
Littered with notes, a minor key,
Of a melancholic symphony
An old, familiar enemy
Without the courtesy of knocking
Threatens to break down the door
Only to catch me bathing
In blood-thick self-loathing
Listening to Gorecki
Ringing out the thoughts in my head
In yet another vain attempt at description
But I'm thwarted by words
And my inability to place them in the proper order
To convey the physical sensation
Accompanying hopelessness, despair
None of which would be so bad
If it didn't feel like home
I hear you.
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