There are these short stints
in my life when I feel rather okay.
These are not at all common.
When they come, I am a satisfied
pig watching with a flat
temperament the chaos that raises
my boat. The water rises so high,
the landmarks disappear
but my fear remains repressed, for I
have cases of Hershey’s Almond
Chocolate bars, 36 in each case, and I feel
myself spectating at the odd
feeling of not being disappointed
in myself for eating a whole case
at a time, more often than not.
My last short stint started
last Wednesday, but now, it’s terrible,
my boat is sinking and I’ve stopped
eating the chocolate. No matter.
You cannot make me fearful,
for I am writing.
There are these long stints
in my life when the darkness
permeates everything. The last one
ended last Wednesday, but it lasted
so long, nine weeks, and there were
two days when I was reaching down,
clutching my hair in desperation,
but calmly embracing suicide’s horns.
The last long stint was overwhelming
and stifling because I felt as though
I couldn’t write a word. Writing is a vent
and I want it back soon.