pandemics and natural
disasters and sicknesses
and tragedies that may
never be salvageable.
you tell me to have hope
but when my flesh and
blood feels the same
impending doom
how does one ever
survive the heartache of
realizing life has always
been this cruel,
and we are not exempt
from the deepest cuts
no matter how careful
we tread,
how well we tend to
our wounds,
we will be undone
by someone's pain
by our own
and the way we could
never quiet it enough
to hear the voices that
matter, the ones speaking
of flowers blooming despite
the harsh tundra, the chill
of our bones in the middle of
summer.
i'm so tired of saying i'm tired
and only meaning the exterior,
you don't know my depths, you
haven't walked through the
caverns and i think you somehow
know they would break down
your will if you tried.
i have no definite plans,
going forward or backwards,
no amount of care will patch up
the poison and the questions don't
hold significance anymore, if life
was the venom all along or if it
ever had the chance to be an
antidote, it's the same, why
can't you understand this?
the anguish is cyclical and i don't
see how it can be cleared from
a body that has taken on boulders
it was never strong enough to
balance in the first place.
there are things worse than
what we have survived, we'll
never be at the end of the slaughter
and knowing this forsaken reality,
one we are doomed to repeat,
takes away the last layer of
faith that remains.
