The Unholy Madness of Being

Madness has absorbed itself into this night. It

has imbibed itself, absorbed itself into every aspect

of itself. This night has agreed to be cohesive

with lunacy.

This is a strange chapter, this second-degree

self-loathing. There must be people, out there

looking for a way to not hate themselves, looking

to forget the times they lost for no fault. There

must be people who ache as much as I do.

Tomorrow morning, at eight, I

will make myself a coffee, black

and bitter as tonight, lost. I will not

drink it, just make it. A hat-tip

to a futile effort I make everyday.

I teach myself every day, to stay

away, from this night. Tell myself

that there is a plot which needs to be played. Every night,

I convince myself to be the actor, and not

the audience. Every night, I

elope with my sadness, instead.