Four o'clock

I thought today was an improvement.
I wanted to thank God.
But, tossing and turning in bed.
Thinking about waking up tomorrow.
Getting more and more agitated.
I suppose, no one can be expected to keep you company.
Not at 4am. So I sit here and talk, to myself.
Maybe double digits is a bad year,
I hate birth. Days. Not to be ungrateful to my family.
And the friends who wrote me thoughtful messages.
Or C, who always has a lovely word and card.
But they're distressing. Days.
I hoped for quiet, familiar, company.
Instead I dined and talked with a stranger.
A nice stranger doesn't take away the bitterness.
Really. It's been building up for longer, beyond that day.
M, the city of distant ghosts, cold faces.
A place I loved, or a bad and lonely place?
The cars. Deadly trucks. Angry cyclists knocking angrily.
The closer proximity, the heightened expectations.
The distateful mess. The fatigue. And a poisonous aftertaste.
Pointing. It's your fault. No it's your fault.
The inability to say a caring word. How sad.
Sadness is irritable. And sadness. Is isolating.
The episodes makes functioning. Rather difficult.
And sleep. Rather difficult too. Don't think DSM.
I thought there were old friends and new friends.
On good days there are. Opportunities to love.
But on bad days I see the popular, shunning the unpopular.
And lament that it happens at church. Of all places.
It could be seasonal. You know, summer and winter.
The lense needs a cleaning. Dark in darkness dwells.



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