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.

.