By the age of eighteen I was a goodlooking fellow
But, awkward and sometimes scary as a leech.
I was trying to make sense of myself,
Eventhough I was drinking, taking drugs,
And wearing a mask to hide my self.
Six feet high
A dreaming eye
I remember some snippets of my early poems.
I wrote them in a pocket sized black book.
I remember I thought of suïcide and of death
in a poem that was titled
Soon to Come
My poems were not meant for others
For people to read, I thought.
I didn’t show them to anyone,
The poems I wrote during my depression.
They were not inspirational.
It wasn’t meant to move or touch other people’s hearts.
It was simply how I communicated
In my loneliness, and in my pain.
It was something I made that felt true.
In the stillness it gave me solace,