A Prisoner to Myself
Words are wars that we throw up
Straight onto the page from ink and pen.
Each battle is an emotion that we feel,
and each victory is another page
Shoved down into the paper bin.
It keeps me focused on myself as if
I should even retain my own attention.
But yet it distracts me from my own
Body that's crumbling and falling apart,
Freeing me for just a little bit from the pain.
And these wars that we fight alone,
We pave a path for others to share their
Own stories about victory and loss–
Everyone gets to be heard even when
It feels like no one is ever hearing you.
It keeps me grounded when the tide
tries to pull me away from the ground.
And it keeps me content despite the
Screaming deep inside the ache of my
Heart, my body, and my happiness.
Then someday the need to write will fade,
Like the urge to fight even when you know
That you’re no longer in danger’s way–
You can retire the old book and pen,
Finally taking a moment just to sigh in relief.
I wonder when those days will arrive,
Cause I’ve been waiting for them awhile now.
I’ve been letting myself forget the bad,
While my mind head has deteriorated further
Than it should ever have been allowed to.
I’m just tired of sinking like a ship lost
to an iceberg in the middle of the ocean.
But until these conflicts end for good,
I will keep myself content one way or another,
And somehow I will be alright again.
I know I will.
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