I try to find the words,
yet they escape me every time.
Fixated on the tempo,
always mindful of the rhyme.
The meaning gets distorted,
like I’m speaking different tongues.
Understanding eludes speech,
wasting breath from broken lungs.
Conveying ruthless pain
comes out rather unconvincing.
Confused at my attempt,
you scoff at me simply existing.

Minute to second living
is the first choice that I have.
Other ways of coping
seem so wasted and so sad
Spoken was this truth:
The hardest fight is with myself.
Your understanding will not save me,
so put my book back on the shelf

~kb