Nights like these,
they are the worst.
I know where I should be.
Free.
But I’m not.
I’m here.
Two weeks,
four days,
eighteen hours
and seventeen minutes,
give or take.
Who’s counting?
I wait for the release,
even though I know it’s not coming.
When will it end,
this illness?
Another day,
still no sign.
Understand the diagnosis
and accept there’s no cure.
Raise a glass
to heal the pain,
but it’s too strong.
So I sit alone
and listen to the walls talk.
Antony N Britt - Author 
What’s wrong? I know I haven’t written for awhile – long story, But I do care.
Many thanks for stopping by. I’m okay. It was a piece from a few years back I thought I’d post.