Stitch This

It’s amazing the trouble

You need to hide muddle,

to project an impression of calm.

To make everyone fail

to pick up on my tale

of self pity, dillusion and harm.

My jokes now all lack

the right bite as I crack

lamely on and I slur and repeat.

Once you laughed,

now I see you hang back,

look concerned, then away

at your feet.

I could push

my alarm,

hit destruct,

Close it down,

But my chance of respite would by nil.

So I type late at night

get it out

straight and true

for perspective

will soften the view.