The Empty Chair

A Pencil scribbling wildly ‘cross a blank lined sheet of paper, As the seconds counter sweeps across the clock, The fog outside the window forms a cloud of misty vapor, When upon the door I hear a gentle knock, I don’t need the distraction so I turn the metal lock, And hear footsteps trailing from my bedroom door, I turn to face my writing as I walk up to the desk, As the wooden chair squeaks lightly ‘cross the floor. My pain and my frustration leaking out on to the page, As my thoughts compounding find their way to verse, The stinging sense of malice which flows out of me as rage, Keep my thoughts from manifesting into worse, This release from my insanity, escaping from my curse, Takes up all my inner strength of concentration, To prevent my brain from dwelling on the cruel and aching truths, Of this life of mine in all its devastation. The thoughts are getting louder as inside my head they scream, As rejection and embarrassment abound, Emotions haunt my waking hours and stalk me while I dream, For no matter where I hide from them, I’m found. My heart and mind will struggle as they search for common ground, As I try to make some sense out of my pain, But the culmination of a life of sorrow and regret, Drives me slowly towards the brink of the insane. But to hide is less effective as the months keep passing by, And the words I find more difficult to write, For the quiet voice inside my head is saying we must die, And the thought no longer fills my heart with fright, For I see the fraying stretch of rope, now dangling in the light, Though its knot is hanging ominously loose, As I wrap it ‘round my neck and step out off the wooden chair, I can find at last salvation in this noose. This poem is based off of a suggestion I recieved from MontrealPoet on my poem, "A Writer's Asylum" to attempt a slightly darker take on the original. It is no way a reflection of my current mental state. Thanks for reading.