Risen.
The howl of slumber calls to me.
Moonbeams creep in through the window and lick my face.
I wipe the disgust from my face and try to find the glass half full,
But the cup is *****, the phrase fairly ambiguous.
In all reality you, Agathist, that glass may as well be filled with water but rimmed with poison.
And yet you have tainted this glass yourself.
Yesteryear’s remnants of giggles and glimmer clog my pores.
This infection itches and I fill my body with whatever caffeine I can scavenge to numb the biting pain.
As I decipher what this catastrophic hell is that I’ve been living, I find the broken shovel from a grave I dug myself.
How could a static world become so post-apocalyptic in the bat of an eyelash.
These gruesome horrors I live each day are pure irony,
for I’ve never had an adventure this vivid when my life was sane.
Nor have I never dared take that leap into the canyon, and I’ve waited too long –
My parachute is ripped, but there’s no going back.
My sides ache and I am bleeding inside.
They don’t notice.
My injuries are within and they don’t bother asking.
Funny thing is you will be blamed.
It is your fault.
You can change.
Lighten up.
They’ll tell you it’s not real and it’s all in your head.
The monster gnawing at your bones?
Brush it off.
Your heart shatters, you don’t think you can go on.
Sweeping it all into a dustpan you carry your remains.
You near the trash and start dumping it. All of it.
Hoping to ease your pain
But,
Among these burdens something catches your eye.
You almost missed it.
You stop and rummage through the pieces.
Your hands get cut in the process but you succeed.
Holding it up against the shining sun, I see exactly what I have come across:
Hope.
Writing for me is an emotional safe haven, so I try to write also for those who my use reading as their outlet. This poem is dedicated to all those I know, and those I don't, who are struggling out their to find their own hope. It is to help them know that no matter how hard it seems right now, there will always be hope.
