Dark and brooding is the mood

the train of thought

that seems to empower me

at almost all times.

Are all movers of the pen-

those who create a worthy prose-

only to be found in the dark?

Is there a lighter verse?

To me, all which seems to be

worth exploring or expressing

are the dismal, painful, and forlorn.

It's all I care to know.

There have been periods of promise,

times of smile and hope,

a delicious break from the norm,

a sabbatical from the shadows.

Such are fleeting and thin,

almost as if dreamlike or surreal-

a fever or drugged reality

that swiftly slips away.

I can't seem to recall

a solid, pleasant lucidity

of something lovely or serene

or a thought worth saving.

All too soon, a good feeling,

a simple lightness of heart

loses hold, bleeds away

and the demons return.

The pinprick of a needle,

the horrors of another sleepless night

-these are what envelop.

These are what stay.

The voices and whispers

that flow from my wrist

are not intended to harm,

but they are there just the same.

Escaping the emptiness and fear,

the nights of despair,

is something I truly desire

but cannot ever seem to obtain.