The Rebirth Quartet (yes ik it's corny, gimme a break)

This is a quartet of poems, written at different times in my life. These are not particularly good poems, for I am not much for writing poetry. But they are the best way I could get me out of myself. The poems reflect the moments in my life they were written. The first three were written in the same night, at 3 in the morning, as I sat white-knuckling through a hailstorm of misery. The 4th was written a year later.
Happy reading.

#1 - Buried
I sit here; unconscious
Almost.
I wish I was.
I wish I drank,
Almost.
I wish I smoked,
Never.
Life seems bleak, as though it is over;
I almost wish it was.
Light shines, in the dark reaches of my space.
New.
Bright.
Unfading.
It, like a siren, calls me;
Like a lost sailor, I answer.
I am tired. I am faded. I seek nourishment;
In the undiminishing.
I am empty; I was never full, or always have been.
I am dry.
The fuel has left me.
I seek replenishment; in the cruel,
Unfading;
Everlasting light
Of purpose rediscovered.
I beseech whomever listens, I pray, I prostrate myself;
Let me find deliverance.
For I am empty.
Tired.
Dying.
I seek a reason to smile.
I beseech whomever listens, I pray, I prostrate myself;
Deliver me.

#2 - Illusions
I hunt for illusions;
For the balm they are,
For the succour they provide.
I find illusions;
They are shadows,
Unreal and immaterial,
Un-enough to sustain.
Reality finds me.
I am sick.
Of reality;
Of the world as is;
Of ceaseless effort;
Of tiresome pursuit.
Never finding,
For nothing I do is enough.
There is no illusion of success,
To stave off the realities of failure.
I seek illusion;
Not as self-deception,
For I will know myself to be illuded.
I seek illusion;
For nothing can be done,
Without it.
Hope, another word;
Both are the same –
Un-forthcoming,
Vital.
I seek illusions;
Small, every day.
Something, anything;
Arms in the fight.
I want to fight, never give up;
But I am alone.
Even hope has abandoned me;
Yet I harbour it, or some ghostly echo.
I am alone.
I hope that I am enough;
For I deserve
The victory.
I hope.
But I am alone.

#3 - Mistakes
I am my mistakes;
Of them, there are many.
Enough to, in lonely despair, drown;
Strangle in the depths.
Often, I am alone;
Accompanied by myself.
And I am not good company.
Blame is easily bandied by many;
I am my fault.
That is not a bandie-ment.
What I am;
I have made.
I was a fool.
I have been a fool.
Perhaps,
I will be again.
But;
I will be better.
For once, I dreamt;
Great dreams of a great life.
That dreamer lives, still;
Under the me that is mistakes,
And errors,
And idiocy.
I must fight;
Or die trying.
For the dreamer;
And his impossible dreams.
Impossible, that is, for;
Me the Mistake.
For him, the Dreamer, they are fact.
For the Dreamer, I shall dare;
In the daring, I hope, to find…
Peace.
Peace such that;
I may stare at the mirror, and
Not imagine a hangman’s noose.

#4 - Light and Ichor
“O!” would I cry,
Despondent and torn.
“Woe is me!” I would scream,
Into the empty void
Of life lonely.
Much the beauty was I;
A beauty losing her looks,
Afraid of being upstaged.
That misery is dying now,
Though to claim it is gone
I would lie.
The black clouds are fading,
As the golden light
Of the world beyond streams through
The cracks.
“Am I a chick?” I wonder;
Born anew under a strange sun,
Hatching forth from a forgotten egg.
But I am being born.
That is true.
Fed, am I, by the ichor of light.
I want to scream again,
But in joy!
Or something approaching it.
But I welcome
The light,
Like an old friend.
For it is an old friend.
How foolish am I to have forgotten.