Poem: Others

Leaving the bed is hard;
until pain forces me to.
Leaving the house is hard;
until insanity-driven lonliness
drives me out.
Or hunger.
Days that are the same.
Same as other days which came before.
Days of boredom,
days of constriction.
A noose the perfect metaphor.
Walking in place,
perceptions are not perfect,
peace is not always truth,
and discomfort may be helpful.

All things pass.

We fall down until
we are too old and weak
to pick ourselves up.
When I say "we"
I mean "me,"
but it makes me feel better
to imagine
there are others.