I found some papers from before I quit my job, and got on disability.  This poem was written  when things were bad, because I was so stressed out.  Anyway, judge for yourself.  There is no title.

There is a voice in the back of my mind
Whispering nothings into the air.
I only follow along,  because
I have no where else to go.
Do you think there are nothings
To whisper to the wind,
Or is nothing the strange netherworld
Full of promises often best forgotten
In the dark of the night.

If I told you the truth would
You believe me?
If I told you how close I've come
To Death,
You'd shrink from me.
I've stood on that precipice
Staring down into the wanderings
Of a mind stood still too long.

Do you think I'm lying?
Do you think I'd tell you
A distruth when I have now
Nothing left to lose?
I speak only whisperings of a thing
In it's honesty,
And shout meaningless phrases into the twilight.
Choose now which you will hear.
The other will seem strange
With the passing of time.



There are two more poems written at the same time as this last one.



The door is open on gentle hinges.
At any moment they might give,
And snap closed the plank.
To walk through that door terrifies me.
I fear for my well being,
For my peace of mind,
And in fearing make real
That very thing that I dread.



And the last one:



There are shadows in my head,
A mockery of fairnesss and understanding,
Too late to see the severed hand of love.
It lies outstretched but undone;
To twist between it's fingers
Now the cloth of ingenuity.