Sitting

©2001 by Steve Macdonald

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm prone to very strong storms of depression. Writing helps me work out what's eating me, and gives me a handle on digging my way out.

Sitting all alone, now
Steps echo the halls
Concert songs are over
My voice echoes the walls

Why am I certain I'm alone?
Why do I know I'm not fit to be a home?

Friendship gets offered
Yet I drift away
I know I take more than give
Someday- needs to be paid

Why am I certain I'm alone?
Why do I know I'm not fit to be a home?

I travel to fill emptiness inside
There's nothing deep within me
I care, I think, I bleed
But I hold on to nothing-
For that's all that's inside me

That's why I'm certain I'm alone
That's why I know I'm not fit to be a home.

Empty seats sit and face me
Each one a lost friend
I'm a brief flash in their lives
Enriching, then end-

Yes, I'm certain I'm alone
I know I'm not fit to be a home.

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