My year of "firsts"

I will be passing many "firsts" this year.  It started on New Years Eve when I celebrated by myself at a bar in St Joe.  It has moved through Valentines Day and Easter and many more to come.  Today is one of those.  It is the first time in 13 years that today became just another day.  I am surprisingly saddened by that.  I have always tried to do a good job celebrating this date.  It seems bizarre that it has just blended into the calendar with all the other 28th's of the month.  But alas, that is the nature of the year.
As my year moves forward, I will get caught by more.  There will be holidays alone, or just me and the boys.  Never again will the old foursome take to disk golf course or bike trail or any other spontaneous event.
This seems to suck me dry today.  I stopped in a park today and scribbled this onto a yellow, post-it-note.

There are days when words no longer ease the pressure,
I open my veins into my fountain pen,
But my soul that so often spills out is dry.
The pressure is so great that the suffocating feeling
Seems to have no beginning or end
No breath, no gesture, no rest,
No run, no bite, no vice can ease the pain.
Just breathe to know that I am still alive.
This is only one day of many.


I clearly started this yesterday.  I have fallen back into an old pattern of withholding myself in incomplete writings.  Sometimes I am afraid that the sullen tone of the writing will give the wrong impression.  My life is not a sad, dreary experience, but those are the times that I need to write the most.  I have started working on some poetry of other things and times and I find that to be cathartic, but they don't flow as easily as the more negative feelings.  That is a good thing.  It turns those works into a more structured art, rather than a passionate rant.  I will post them after I read them out loud.  I don't want to only post the crap and none of the fruit.   
As a side note, feel free to comment on my poetry.  I would like literary criticism to help me make it more readable and flowing.  Often it feels that poetry is just an excuse to write a run on sentence.