Poem I wrote a while ago when I wasn't as well as I am now.
Is this as good as it gets?
That I can be substantially content,
That I can say that things are fine,
But still wait for something, watch the time,
That my words on the topic are carefully rehearsed,
That I can remember when it was worse,
And compare it for a second (only a second),
And keep my thoughts on the matter off the record,
I’m ashamed of this, of superficial things I desire,
They stack up together like a funeral pyre,
And I watch them burn because reality is cruel,
And everything’s ugly sometimes, often everyone’s a fool,
And I’m sorry if I come across distant or cold,
But the emotion is too complex to explain in the way a plate is too hot to hold,
I think I’m sick and maybe I need some meds,
Or maybe I’m OK and I just need to eat right and go to bed,
I’m tired and I’m angry and I’m scared and I’m sick of being lonely,
And all I have is this stale notion to hold me,
What if sunrise never comes? What if I will always want more?
What if I’m destined to make like a drunkard passed out on the floor?
Don’t mind what I’m saying, I’ll block it out I guess,
And I feel selfish asking but...is this as good as it gets?