The new poem...that may signal the end of writer's block.

Ok so it's creepy and icky, but still it's progress. Oh and it's inspired by the shit swirlin in the air today (see previous blog).

Comforting Thoughts

He slides the suicidal thoughts on like gloves,
Well fitting and seemingly meant to be.
He pulls them on like boots,
Knowing that with them he can walk through anything.
He fastens them like armor around his chest.
They protect his heart.
He welds them like his sword.
Nothing can touch him.
Nothing can damage him
More than he plans to damage himself.
In that final decision
There is such ultimate power
(though some call it weakness).

The thoughts are like imaginary friends,
His only friends,
And he dances with them.
People and their realities
DEMAND TOO MUCH!
He caresses the thoughts
(Like a child’s favorite blanket.
Those without such a blanket never
Understand the comfort it provides.
He can’t make you understand
His comforting suicidal thoughts).
He reaches for them in the night
To make sure they are still there.
Because at least that means he’s not alone.
At least that means there’s a plan
(and those thoughts still the anxiety about the future).
Covered by the gloves, the boots, the sword,
The armor, the blanket, he walks by you everyday,
But you never notice
All of his gear.
And even if you could see it,
You’d never convince him to part with
His comforting thoughts.