Yet still.

State the obvious,
Rub it in.
Do it with,
A facetious grin.
State the obvious,
Show your hand.
Yes, I’m wobbling,
Yet still here I stand.

Forever.

Amidst the fire,
This burning shell,
The broken soul,
And mind as well,
You my heart,
Are the gift, the treasure.
I pray that we have,
Forever.

Have become.

Deep breath.  In. Out.
Here we go once more.
Pull myself up,
From the damaged floor.
Deep breath.  In. Out.
Wish for something more,
But this message is in repeat,
And I have become a bore.

This door.

Too tired for all of this.
Yet it keeps on coming.
It’s that point in a song,
When the guitarist keeps on strumming.
I am desperate for the words,
The key change, something more.
I am waiting, but not patient.
I want to shut this door.

That look.

I see the look,
Could meet yours in return,
But what would be the point?
There’s nothing to earn.
I see the look,
And I close my eyes.
I’ll see that look,
When one of us dies.

Dirvish whirl.

‘Brock’ned’ as my grandma would say.
Thankful, still, I very day.  
Blessed with the beauty of my girl,
Though the rest of it is a dirvish whirl.

Stung.

I don’t feel fully formed for this.
I still feel far too young.
I try my best continually,
But how your words have stung.