early to bed

I huddled in the
corner of my
apartment
last night,
nursing some,
dangerous thoughts.
yet, the order of my walls
with their pastel colors
and framed joy,
and the bookcases overflowing
with chaotic happiness,
both failed to stem
the evilness that
crept in and squatted
in my brain.
I was scared
in my little fort
between the couch
and the heater,
at a loss of what would happen next,
of what i would do next,
images flashing of past hurts
and future could be's
that left me so uncertain,
that i chose oblivion as the
safest recourse.
My hands shook as I counted
out night meds.
knowing how easy it would be
to take an extra one or seven.
So i tucked myself in
embarrassingly early
to escape from myself.
And when I awoke,
the uncertainty was
less uncertain,
but the inkling was still there.
So i must keep busy.
Church, Computer, Reading, Writing,
But what will happen when
i am alone again after i
exhaust these tasks?
Am I destined for a 7:30 bedtime
for the rest of my life?
So now you understand
this poem,
perhaps the impetus
behind all of my poetry:
i am afraid of what will
happen when i lay down my pen.

You Just Don't Know

you just don't know
how hard
the tight fingered grip on
my darkling instinct
has to be.
it is relentless,
even now
in a time of relative neutrality.
between my louder demons
and lesser angels,
i still leave a mental crimp
at the impenetrable door i've
erected between myself
and everybody else.
if i create bloody brambles
of my own self loathing,
imagine what damage others
can do if i allowed them near
my poor fragility?
and then when i let go
confident that all will be well
and it is not,
the madness greets me again
taking the words
(my best friends)
on a rambling race
becoming jumbled barbs in my head.
so no, i cannot, i will not
be free;
a laughing jester
with new friends and lovers,
because with freedom,
comes chaos
and i can never live madly again.
i can still cry though,
in my rocking chair,
because quiet loneliness
is a bitter prize for sanity.