Poetry

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buried beneath these endless days?

Life in that miserable pit again,
where breath feels thin and hope runs dry,
where every thought turns back on me,
and even truth begins to lie.

Hurting—agony without a witness,
no hand to reach, no voice to hear,
just echoing walls of my own despair,
telling me no one’s coming near.

Are you so vital to my living,
that I must feed on what destroys?
Consuming sorrow like it’s substance,
while starving out all truer joys?

Why keep walking this worn-out road,
this cycle carved in pain and strife?
Why cling to what keeps taking life,
and call it somehow part of life?

No—lay it down, this bitter weight.
Let it fall from tired hands at last.
There’s something more than this small prison,
more than the shadow of the past.

Choose not the pit that calls you back,
but the ground where breath is wide—
not forced, not earned, not fought for hard,
but given… waiting… just outside.

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