The End Is The End -- A Poem

Here I am,

Again,

Wandering fourty acres of

Wheat grass,

Wild flowers,

And intrusive blackberry bushes

Wondering...

If any of it's going to matter.

Lost in thought,

Entranced in reverie,

Trapped in my own sorrow,

I can't see.

Birds are chirping,

The sun is shining,

The breeze is blowing,

Bugs are buzzing.

And none of it means a thing.

The same tingles when I'm singing in church provoke me now...

Something passing it's way through my body,

Prodding me to cry.

To bend a knee.

But there's nothing left to give.

My heart beats but I can't feel it.

My heart aches but it's like there's nothing there.

A hole...

An aching hole.

Why now I question.

Why here?

Why again

Am I down to my last thread for hanging on to,

Am I so close to giving in?

Why do promises not resound,

Spring me from this pit,

At least put me back on solid ground?

Better yet just give me something I can cling to,

Something more than this piece of thread...

Slipping through my fingers with every passing thought,

Every memory,

Every word left unsaid.

Why cannot I even grasp for strings and grab hold...

Why must I turn to crimson rain,

Pain self-inflicted.

Maybe I'm not listening,

To the voices pleading,

Begging,

Enough is enough,

Don't give up!

Maybe I'm tired,

Of that I know for sure...

Exhausted of options,

Of places to go,

Maybe it's just not my turn.

To be happy and healthy,

Lithe and upbeat...

Maybe I'm just meant to be the cushion on the seat.

The welcome mat by the door,

Where Life treads daily

Wiping it's feet...

Can he see that I'm here?

Maybe?

Can he see that I feel

Lower than the scum on the ocean floor...

Can he see that I feel small

Like an atom torn into molecules?

Is there a way out,

Or do I have to keep digging?

Because my hands are getting tired,

My mind's already exhausted,

My feet are still stuck in concrete,

And sometimes the end isn't always a beginning.