The pit
The deepest pit all dark and dewed,
where eyes can’t see but tears are spewed.
The longing and knowing of what is not,
the way I feel, the light, forgot.
And down, down I go,
thoughts pursue in fatigue.
Energy scarce, can hardly breathe.
The guilt the horror, of my own mind,
I’m trapped but it’s now how I’m defined.
The lens so murky, the future grey,
sadness is all I know,
so here I stay.
I do not matter, my mantra thick,
as the tears stale on my quivering lip.
But it’s not just tears that surround me now,
a dulling, a frightening, a lesser bow.
Of my humanity stuck and stumbled,
in this pit I now have humbled.
See I don’t wish to bother or acknowledge,
my pain is not for others to forage.
Someone else has it much much worse,
as I’m reminded of our horrid curse.
And now I can’t accept my own,
because I get thrown enough, a bone.
So comparison’s sin, but it’s why I’m here,
I never felt alone, such fear.
Help is far and few between,
because life now feels more like a dream.
I’m watching, not participating,
my feet mucked in mud,
and I can’t step forward as I try to run.
I’m gasping,
I’m clasping to what I have left,
but it seems this pain is now worse than death.
I’m empty, I’m stray,
I do not belong,
because I’m not satisfied with that bone alone.
Teeth gnashing, mind crashing,
my guts implode,
“but harden up” is all I’m told.
Why can’t I see, why can’t I brave,
the world ahead like others knave.
So here I stay and hope a little,
but hope is dangerous when life’s a riddle.
I’m not enough, I tell myself,
but it’s I who put me on that shelf.
I can’t get out of this damned pit,
not by my own charm or wit.
So I numb myself in however manner,
and wait for the end by judgements hammer.
But the blisters burst on my weary feet
and add to my own tired defeat.
No one knows the war inside,
I keep it secret safe I hide.
But I do not trust myself for long,
as needles prick and thoughts are thrown.
These thoughts that hate me,
suck life, berate me,
tempting fate, to end my hades.
An echo from a time before,
where my heart was left upon that floor.
That no one else could see or hear,
as I scream within and decay draws near.
My skin is caving,
my face eroding,
my nails black and lungs imploding.
What is the worth of my own breath,
as with each shallow gulp I test.
What is my place, won’t someone see,
the thing that I’m supposed to be.
But light has dimmed, what blew my wick?
As mantra old and tiring thick.
I do not matter,
over and over and over again.
It has become my only friend.
So as I lay and burden deep,
my own existence, not mine to keep?
The end feels free, it’s a lasting hope,
for if I feel no longer to cope.
They won’t mind,
convince and ride,
this thought that now occupies my mind.
I’ll be forgotten, so I may as well,
surely this life is worse than hell.
Selfish you say?
Clearly not like me,
which furthers me into this infirmary.
I cannot get out of this suckling pit,
that’s taken my will and energy split.
What do I do when I cannot breath,
and my own mind has me on my knees.
Where do I go when horror flows,
from my face now all I know.
I take a bow and shallow spit,
this torment of my home, this pit.
So all I know, my mantra thick, I do not matter, my life, is it?
– Emma Newman
