Given in.

One more stone. I felt it.
Then another, making that two.
If I add them to yesterday’s,
I lose count.  Who knew?
My maths has given up,
1 year and 5 weeks in.
My heart and soul are beaten.
My body has given in.

Those flaws

The need for escapism,
So real and such temptation.
A needed step away from reality,
And bruised lamentation.
The curtain drops,
The harsh lights flare,
Reality cold,
Shivering, bare.
No wonder,
That it has its draws,
The stage lights,
Hiding all those flaws.

Once again cold.

I listened, and I tried.
I offered myself hope.
Being hit again,
Drops me down the rope.
That thing I tried to grasp,
To cherish and hold,
Has dropped and dropped me,
My soul, once again cold.

Hold the west.

It keeps on coming.
Any pause, so brief.
It will not be long,
Until the next wave of grief.
One more trigger,
One more test,
One more thing to fear,
As you hold the West.

To myself.

Judgement is not always,
A thing you can ignore.
Sometimes people have power,
To a level you can’t ignore.
I choose to be honest.
Whatever that may do.
I will fight for her,
And to myself be true.

Spent.

Hope can be the kindest gift,
But the cruelest torment.
It’s can provide the energy,
Or warn you that you’re spent.

Process.

Tired that the journey,
Seems to have no end.
No pause, or respite,
It no longer a new friend.
Tired that the fight,
Feels incessant.  No relief.
Missing what once was,
But too tired to process grief.