The cycle

by Chayse
(Boca Raton)

I can feel,
My brain telling me to cry,
I need to let it out,
I am stressed, scared, sad.

My body won’t let me.

They are in constant war.
My life: the battle ground.
My sanity: the reward.
I can feel,
My logic telling me to get help,
I need to talk,
I am defeated, alone, sinking.

My pride won’t let me.

They are in a fist fight,
Constant jabs, uppercuts, and hooks,
Till my pride pulls a gun.
I can feel,
The stars collapsing.
The ground caving.
The walls crumbling.

I try to push the stars back up,
Place them in their correct positions,
But they are out of order,
A clumsy mess,
Leaving me lost, wandering.

I try to grasp the ground,
Hold it in place,
But it concaves,
A dark abyss,
Leaving me hanging, falling.

I try to support the walls,
Keep them together,
But the pieces tumble,
A pile of rubble,
Leaving me shattered, damaged.
I can feel,
Reality: slipping.
Hope: fading.
Faith: lacking.

I try to tighten my grasp on reality,
Clasp on to the last piece,
But my hands glide off,
I watch it shrink,
As I fall farther away.

I try to piece fragments of hope,
Pull them till they connect,
But they push apart,
I watch them get smaller,
As they fade faster and faster.

I try to restore faith,
I pray –to what?- and try to believe,
But my prayers aren’t answered,
I watch belief diminish,
As I get shoved off.

Nothingness comforts me,
It’s warm embrace holds me tight.

Emptiness stalks me,
Watching my every mood.

Holiness abandons me,
Leaving me as only sin.

Voices haunt me,
Overshadowing my thoughts.

My body becomes weak,
Deprived of what it needs.

Starvation and malnourishment,
I am bare.

Carried by the wind,
Part of the earth.

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