What to do, what to do, to keep me sane, to keep me here, to keep me from writing frankly awful poetry that steers my soul into that rock face that I faced when I was 27 and driving down a mountain in a blizzard that was covered in sheer black eyes that gleamed like the eyes of all my “mentors”, watching my every step, criticizing arms behind my back, critiquing the way I speak and how I look and how I am around people who won’t ever see me again in just a few short (long) days. What to do is work harder, sleep less, sleep more sometimes and do more every day not for me, but for them, to keep them happy, keep them thinking I can do what I don’t think I can do anymore, so that maybe one day in keeping doing this, I can make myself happy too. But I can’t make myself happy, can I? I never can. I never could. And in that, I am like the people I despise the most. I am like the people who don’t get it, could never get it, and won’t ever even try to get it. There’s darkness behind everything I do, but moreso, there is darkness in everything I don’t do. And I question whether it will always be that way or if one day I can lift that confining black veil and stand in a pale sunlit afternoon looking at the gravestone of my demons.

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