Exile from a friend

Well, I used to fancy myself a poet... but I was never really great at it. Have had a couple of poems published, but it was so long ago and in useless publications. The thing is sometimes a person needs to feel completely confused and tortured to really be a productive artist. I know that's a stereotype, but when things are going fabulously in my life, and I'm in love and happy and surrounded by people I love and can really connect with and relate to on a bunch of different levels (I have like 5 friends left in my life like that and all  of us are so far away from each other.), I don't think hey I'm so goddammit happy I'm going to write a lovely bit about it-- although I confess I felt all of that a few weeks ago and wrote a sonnet, an ode to someone I'd reconnected with who made me feel very special. In the true spirit of the Tao I had to feel that bliss and have it ripped away so that I could again feel broken, ie lame attempt at a little wallowing, free-verse bit below. I also used to read and write so much more for fun and relaxation. Writing my dissertation has been completely and utterly painful. It has ripped every ounce of creativity from my writing style and isolated me to the point of wishing I could be the kind of person who could kill themselves. I don't know how many times I sat, struggling with primary, secondary texts and my own ideas and how I have to entirely reiterate the point of my dissertation throughout the entire thing (the redundancy saps all), and wishing that a large airplane would just fall out of the sky and land on my office building, only damaging me beyond repair.

Most nights
Alone in complete darkness
Silence beside me
I lay down in desire
...and pull the dirt over my eyes.
Down in this hole
Wound up in a web of misconception
An already jaded soul
Tainted toward oblivion
Blindfolded in a tomb.
Constrained
...and
Fighting weakness
Wanting to crawl out
And ring your doorbell.