To Hell and Back in the AM

When wracked with suff'ring even more, I all alone bemoan my fate, as one who drowns in sorrows sore which harm, harass, and maul his state. Aggrieved for what feels like forever, I trouble God with bootless cries as I endure my manic fever with tearful, red, psychotic eyes. The minute hand lands on midnight! I can't find clear words to express feelings of falling a headlong height b'neath heaven's reach 'yond grief's excess. Inside, I feel the Reaper’s scythe as I think out my mordant plan: razor, pills, or a kitchen knife, a way to end it by my hand!? Like Sylvia Plath, if I can plant my head in a GE gas oven, then it’d be painless!? (But why plan a death so cliche, and unproven?) I think, too, of Virginia Woolf, how she drowned her life in a lake; I, too, feel swallowed in a gulf of swirling misery that'd take me to my death! Why do I feel forsak'n, and heavy as lead now? Am I so hopeless? Why do I feel so worthless, and so so dead? How am I to end my life (to kill myself)— if all loved ones were then to miss me? “Help yourself!” I then heard. "Heal thyself!" I hear aloud. As angels kiss me, I thus then found comfort in this: that family and friends all care, and if I'd died I would be missed; so, I war 'gainst profound despair. And then, Hope dawns! And soon comes peace… And in the morn, I wake arising— Joy breaks in, and I have new lease. And then my state I cease despising!