I Should Be Asleep Right Now But Instead I’m Writing Bad Poetry

So if true hopelessness is a cliff,

And I am myself,

I stand pretty far back from the edge.

I’m pretty sure I do.

I’ve got it pretty good, right here. Fairly secure. Mostly.

And the wind blows sometimes

And it makes me feel all dizzy

And I try to crouch down and grab at the ground

So I don’t fall over the edge.

Even if I’m not really near it.

Sometimes I just feel like I’m near it.

But the edge is somewhat fascinating.

Those people who have gone over it and come back,

Or even those people who teeter on it,

They have stories to tell.

People listen.

And the normal dizziness

Because everyone gets that

(I think)

Is of much less import.

You deal with dizziness.

It comes, you continue on. No one needs to listen to you whine about how dizzy you were today. If you don’t deal you’re just incompetent.

But then I feel,

Two things,

No one cares about my dizzies, and that’s not right, I should be listened to.

And of course some people do listen to me, but not listen listen.

But also I feel that dizziness is just unimportant.

And that this envy of those who are clinically depressed is just a little childish.

Just a tad.

(that was sarcasm)

But I don’t know which is righter.

This is annoying, because I know that one must be wrong, and therefore I might be wrong all of the time.

And then this analysis of my analysis becomes,

Ridiculous.

So I call myself ridiculous.

Which bespeaks of a self consciousness so deep

That it eats its own tail and is forever scrutinizing itself.

And me, I guess, by proxy.

I wonder how you get it to eat something else.