The absence of Creativity is
like living underwater.
Frigid, dark water
a still-birth.

Everyday nuances are muted by
grief of the self:
Such longing!
Such responsibility!

Because you are the only
one
Who can rise up and
Breathe.

It's that hour again,
guilt sets in
because I am
awake.

Insomnia seems to be my only ally
lately,
comforting me with her consistency
like an old lover.

I feel safe here in my lonely cocoon,
here in my head
here in my heart,
again.

This unexpected world is
of my own making,
that's a hard pill to
swallow.

Spent from wrestling demons
and
waiting for a silver lining,
endless hope
dying.

If someone knows the code
or can cut my cord,
would you please indulge me
kindly?

We equate Success with  the positive
when in reality
Success can also be a negative,
like Cancer.

In this instance,
you are Yearning for its failure
Praying for its failure
Desperate for its failure!

For if that pesky little cell decides
to invade
and begin the
Dance of Death called
Metastasis,

Success is in its favor.

It wasn't even good anymore
It was just a
HABIT
To fill the empty
VOID.

A glue that I mistakingly
thought would
hold all of my
BROKEN
pieces together.

This pain inside of me is
DEEP
and
UNRELENTING
Burning with endless
REGRET.

This is what I feel
24
hours
a
day.

Everything is an
ACT.
Every positive thought
I must
PUSH
through my brain
as if
lifting
a
HOUSE.

This has been my struggle
All day long,
EVERYDAY
for
21 years.

Fighting and slaying and eventually saying
"I give!  I give!"
to my
RELENTLESS
Dragons.

By nightfall I am
EXHAUSTED.
Dreading the continuous
BATTLE
of tomorrow, the next day, the next, the next....

It's an endless merry-go-round of
GROUNDHOG DAY.
The same battle
The same
DEFEAT
most everyday.

How to escape?

The therapist told me (21 years ago)
She saw women's lives
RUINED
and
LOST
and turned
UPSIDE DOWN
and
INSIDE OUT
over the endless years they've been
SURVIVING
this
DISORDER.

And I thought mine was just a phase.....

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.