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.