This time there will be no poetry
No songs, no tearful prose
No floating into thoughtscape as I
stare at the tiny lights that play
across the walls of my dark room.
No, this time will be dry.
Functional, minimal, standard.
Only the necessary detachment procedures
as I relish the realization
of having got over emotion.
This time I can save time
for the things that count
work, produce, live as before
and revel in my growing strength
as weakness dies an early, sad death in me.
One Life 
Ooooof, superman akkebare.
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But you noticed I mourn the death of weakness, right?
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Of course. But just wait for emotion/weakness/whathaveyou to come sucker-punch you when you least expect it.
PS Weakness counts too, or you wouldn’t be human in quite the same way.
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