Trying to wrest my mood from the dark side,
I cling to the path
well-worn from years of mindless wandering.
That same heaviness plagues my heart,
rending my chest in two.
It is nothing really.
Just the dance on the edge of that cliff-
the one at times I find myself
teetering and scrabbling,
struggling to find firmer ground.
It is nothing really.
Though at this moment
it seems more like quicksand
or a rabbit hole
or a trap door
or something.
But it is nothing,
really.
thecourseofourseasons 
I’ve always seen mine as a black pit. Begone, gray January!
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It is nothing really, is me. Love this poem.
Thank, Judith. Hang in 🙂