I am a stupid man, a stubborn man
I’m waiting for you to come to me
To extend a hand (‘save me’, he cries)
But will I reject you, will I turn away
As I have before?
(so many times before, always repeating the same old mistakes, cap in hand, then ‘no thanks, i’m okay, I can manage, I can do this alone, I don’t need your help’, can’t you see that he’s drowning)
What makes it so hard to take your proffered hand
To swallow my pride and let you in
To stop HATING myself
To stop KILLING myself
Every NIGHT and every DAY
(every heartbeat, every notion, every teardrop, just wash him clean so he can wake up and start the day again and maybe, just maybe, he can get through that day, then get through that night, rinse and repeat, again and again and again and again)
I am a stupid man, a stubborn man
And I’m nearly done
Time’s up
Okay, this poem’s a bit dark. But then, I’m a pretty dark person. My poems reflect all aspects of me, not just the happy stuff. (‘Happy stuff?’ I hear you say. ‘When have you ever written happy poems?’ Good point. Scratch what I said earlier.)
