Which Way?

Is this all I’m able to give,
a collection of sad stories
that make people wonder
how it is I smile so wide?
Is this all I’m capable of,
writing my feelings down
and typing them up for the world to see,
even while knowing they’re all
just destined for the rubbish bin?
Is this worth it,
writing about nothing but doom and gloom,
when perspective should have taught me
the value of what I have?
Have I failed him
by not learning from the decision he took,
the consequences it brought
and the questions it left unanswered?
Have I failed everyone
by not confiding in them the truth
of the battles I fight in the dark,
by not telling them,
‘yes, his plan is my plan,
our thoughts align in our choice of demise’?
Am I being selfish,
for seemingly taking advantage of a writing utensil
to glorify the poor state of mind
I have fallen into for no legitimate reason?
Am I being unfair
to all the people who I have, or haven’t,
written about over the years,
and to all those I will write about in the future?
Where does it all end,
this futile game of cat and mouse
with the people in my life
and the storm inside?
How do I know when to stop
the madness of the deprecation,
the use and abuse of the pen
and the obsession with a past
that should remain where it sits in time?
What do I do,
do I say farewell to everyone
and dig myself a grave next to the Big Man’s,
or do I fight a battle that can’t be won
and die on my feet, not in the air?

In the end, which way is bravest in the eyes of everyone
and less pathetic to the eyes of myself?