It is a nation without fear if all the t-shirts know what they are talking about, colored up so as to ring true and never run. It is a world so beautiful and cast that I do not deserve it, a life wadded up in a corner waiting for disposal. I see the science, I see the breadth, I know the weight of my illness bends my thoughts astray. I know this, yet I cannot change the way this darkness floods. Tomorrow is only make-believe, and tonight is long and sharp.
I have no money and I have no honor. I have no skills to sell or peace to speak. The heart just goes on battered, worthless and without faith. My brain is weak and my body fails me. I am prone to impulsive actions, mood swings, and violence. Every day I let down someone. A new love beckons, and I know already I am not enough of a man to answer true. Suicide is the obvious answer, yet I owe too much to do what is best. Instead I write, and continue being wrong.
The winds blow strong as the flag unravel. The winds blow hard as the words flutter and flee. My moods change and sunder, my voice cracks and crumbles. The days each leave their mark, the world will tend to its wounds. My loss is a drop in the ocean, my failure another mote of dust. We spin while the sun just sits there staring. We rise and fall while the sun spews and fumes. Stars and clouds and dirt and ruin. The writing is sprawling and unruled, the book smudged, every page as innocent as a child, clean and unlined. Tomorrow is the act of faith that will break me. Today just another wound.