WHEN sick with gloom and mental pain,
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I all alone bemoaned my state
like one that had slid back again
into despair which damned my fate.
Disconsolate beyond midnight,
I troubled dear God with my cries
as I bore this bipolar plight
with burning, red, tear-laden eyes.
The night was long—I was distraught;
I longed for rest, to help forget
this sorrow's hold that's got me caught—
like victims of a crashing jet!
Inside, I felt the Reaper’s scythe
as I thought of my suicide;
I could slit my wrist with a knife
or swallow pills to end this sad ride.
Or, like Sylvia Plath, I can
stick my head in a gas oven;
it’s painless—sure. (But then why plan
an end that’s clichéd and so certain?).
I have thought of Virginia Woolf,
how she drowned herself in a lake:
I, too, felt swallowed in a gulf
of swirling sadness that could take
me to my death! Why did I feel
so alone and unloved now, as
if no one cared? Why did I feel
so lonely and unvalued? How was
I to know—that had I killed myself—
would all my loved ones have missed me?
“Yes,” I thought:—so I willed myself
to live (as I now turned misty)!
So I then found solace in this—
that family and friends did care;
and if I died I would be missed:
so I endured the deep Despair.
And then sleep came. And I had peace.
And in the morn, I woke to arising—
Joy broke in and gave me new lease:
and thus my life I ceased despising!
"To have the soul of a poet is to feel with the mind, and to think with the heart."