Last Rites

I got lost in my head again,
and am more worried about the characters living there,
than the people breathing around me.

I'm not sleeping, because you keep haunting me.
I'm not writing, because I'm worried about what I'll unleash.
I'm assuredly not living... that hurts far too much.

I feel ill, down to my very bones,
and I'm sure nobody is listening.

What is the point?


  1. I feel like... I could have written this myself, so often has my life followed such a path and have such thoughts run around in my head.

    I am terribly sorry you're feeling this way. It does pass, it really does. I hope soon life will become a song worth singing again, and worth singing with a proud and beautiful voice. (Hm, I feel that was a strange metaphor, but it was the one that presented itself to my brain, so there you go.)

  2. Oh, D, I'm listening. We're all listening here. Sometimes... sometimes, things just aren't right. In fact, they're incredibly not-right. "Times are hard for dreamers." It's a consequence we all face by choosing this path. But perhaps there is some comfort in knowing you're not the only one who feels this way?