It’s not you, it is everything.
It’s the past, it’s the future,
it’s the moments in between.
It’s the invisible weight bearing down.
The fake smiles to hide the hurt.
The battles that can never be won.
Round and round, the restless feeling
where you’re constantly trying.
Battling, flailing, fighting, surviving.
What is there left to give?
What is left inside of me?
What is left of me?
Be strong, little dear, for you have so much more to see.
A turn of a head,
for just a split second.
There’s that look. Held.
So steady and sure.
Strong, yet seemingly pure.
Not a flutter, nor a falter.
What lies behind?
Is it something kind?
Your stomach starts to churn,
so very nearly knotted.
A tiny slice of doubt. Niggling.
And so you look elsewhere,
anywhere but there.
The fleeting moment flown.
Long lost before it started.
And so you sit and wonder,
what did they see?
And once again, off you flee.
“What do you like about writing?”
“Breaking the rules.”