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PoetryRecovery

Once again, I can't cope
and I talk about the weather.
It's too raw
and it's rainy.
You know how I am on cloudy days.

I am not happy,
I think I am ok.

This is no different than anything else I have been through
it is just something else to survive.
And the humidity is sticking my shirt to my back
my face is swollen;
though that may be the thought of tears.
And I am soaked through
too numb -
too wet with circumstance.

This is one of those days I have nothing to offer
except that sense that I need
Something.

The weatherman says it's supposed to rain all week.
And I heard that the month of May has the highest rate of suicide;
not for the ones who think about it
for the ones who really die,
like Lucy.

I used to be the one who thought about it
now I think about how to keep all of you alive.
I swore to keep living at that damn Catholic funereal.

And I think there may be a God
every time there is a warm hand to hold in the ICU
and the tubes come out
and we get another chance to pick up the pieces.

But there isn't enough glue in the world
to put it all back together.
And rain will fall
lightning will strike
and I'll get another one of those phone calls.

I remember the sound of death in his voice.

I am not happy,
I think I am ok.

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