Frustration crescendoes inside my head
Clenching my fists in anger and dread
Can't think, can't speak, can't find what I need
Too broken inside for joy to be freed
The others all crow with their hard-won success
While I scramble ineffectively in my distress
Can't rest, can't sleep, can't dream any more
Too many dark windows, too many closed doors
No one wants those who can't do what's best
Realizing I don't stand up to their test
Can't talk, can't scream, can't make myself heard
With only grief to inspire written word
A perfect life makes for bad poetry... and a it's a bit of an impossibility. I hope things have gotten better over the past couple of days. :)
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