Defeatist dread
sits in the pit of my stomach.
I'm weighed down,
like a brick tied to my hope
dragging me to drown.

I feel so choked
every expression is strained
strangled in my throat.
If I could sing or could scream
I would let you know.

Is it apathy,
that grounds me to despair
or the horrid prospect
that deep down
I already knew the end.

I can keep adrift,
breathe through make-shift
gills.
but I can't tread water.
webbed-less
not weightless.