the Stresses of Life
gently lapping at the sores
working its tongue
under the skin
through the muscle
and back again
the feeling of
being drowned
in your own spit
of parting your chest
to expose the bone
of cracked ribs
which hides a heart
punctured
from its own tissue
every weight
stacking high
on your throat
slowly cutting off
the air
so you can't smell
the sour of
your own sweat
little temptations
marching out
from beneath the shadows
to show you
what real fear is
by the time you realize
what you've done to yourself
it feels as if it's too late
as if you can't even
crawl into a hole
and hide yourself
from yourself
a cairn
culminated of each tragedy
balancing
on center
dead center
threatening to tumble over
and leave you
empty
and you have to find
value in something
something to keep you struggling-
but it all seems so useless
so tiring and graven
hopes and promises
whisked away
on the tender fingers
of all those who have jabbed you
in the chest
right over the heart
that never seems to heal
empty lies-
every one
told in secret
behind your eyes
giving charm to the notion
that you're
the only one
who has ever felt before
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