It was sad enough to end each day in tears;
my eyes heavy with sleep,
my mind heavy with dread,
my soul heavy with the wearisome burden of such solemn sobriety.
It was a devilish trick, an iron ball-and-chain,
that mocked my progress each day
as the darkness of the night reminded me of my suffocating solitude.
Inebriated, I recklessly swooned and blindly toppled into my bed each lonely night,
and—gooey-eyed, foul-breathed, lightheaded—I awoke to the sun's light kisses each morning,
Another young hopeful, fresh in my naivety.
And yet now, although I shield my eyes from gleeful daylight
and hear friends' cheerful voices flit freely from around the corner,
Now I am intoxicated—
my drunken mind grapples with their words and the smiles on their faces,
desperately I struggle to imitate the incomprehensible frenzy,
I long to end my deliberate madness and instead catch their disease.
I am the drunkard—I drown before noon.
Yet it affords me such sober clarity
I cannot comprehend the raging of the sane,
who trample, unawares, atop my depressed spirit.
I resign myself to the tap—
ever-flowing, never slowing,
as the tears that stain my cheek.