Blackout Darkness summons the moody angst, And romance of an inner evil; A force the subject fights against, Or submits to, welcome thinly veiled. Not this dark. Not MY dark, In darkness, loneliness is fetishised, Sorrow overspilled. All words just masturbation in the dark, Wishing, calling others to your circle-jerk. Not this dark. Not MY dark. The sun retired, Moon in cloud, Power cut, Batteries drained, And candles lost to a dusty cupboard. THIS is my dark. And it's darker than any of yours! And I shuffle about, Stub my toe, And curse the darkness. I cannot find my paintbrush, Anymore than I could point it to a canvas. I cannot find my books, Nor read them if I could. I cannot see my friends. Not can I hear them because they do not call out for me; For they are not here. They're power must still be on, Their televisions saturating them in celebrity rich effluent, For they forget me. So in the dark I do sit. And it IS moody and filled with angst. And you know there IS a monster I barely make the effort to fend off. What's more I AM lonely and I DO want others to join my circle-jerk of romanticised misery. The monster and me, possibly the same, Cry salty white tears, And wallow in shame. Not a soul would shine a light in this self indulgent, misery soaked hole. Who could blame them for looking away, When I can scarcely look at myself; Stood knee deep in my own stinking self indulgence. My haunting darkness is NOT: Special, Unique, Or darker than anyone else's. Nothing special for me, Nothing special for anyone in a hole like this. Can I see the monster doesn't exist? Stop wallowing before I drown? Climb walls slick with shame and self loathing? My self made prison overthrow? ...or live forever in the blackout?