This one I'm composing in black ink On blue paper Just to be different. And I can't find anything else. Maybe I over-analyze myself Or at least over-observe myself. I want to sleep And I'm feeling myself get slowly More and more tired. I know that when I go to sleep I'll forget this pain But I don't want to. I want to fix it. It's been here Too long. Much too long. Any amount of time is too long For pain. Or lack thereof. Emptiness is worse. I guess it's not really pain Just the pain of remembering Something that was And isn't And not knowing how to fix it. If it's possible to get it back If the emptiness is temporary If it's something I've done Or haven't done Or if it's all imaginary. But I want to find out Because I can't do this anymore Or, more accurately, I can. I can lie to myself Forget things Concentrate on enjoying the here and now Finding the good stuff, The neat stuff Finding individual grains of sand In the stream that's flowing through My fingers I can do that For a long time A very long time And now and then it gets to me Late at night When I can't do anything about it Except make up stories Imagine And try vainly to fall asleep To escape But it doesn't always work So I write With a steady hand And dry eyes What is wrong with me ?!??? Six o'clock, Terry. Time to go to bed. And maybe you'll still feel this way in the morning And you'll get help. Please don't forget. For my sake. And yours.
-TCS