PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Weakness and defeat sure take their toll.

I find that lately,

the prospect of living -on,

holds nothing but more misery for me.



I lie there, thinking too much, too deeply,

in agonies, too powerful to even describe-

and find myself with tear-blurred eyes,

asking God to "please, please, please bring me home."



I then think such wicked thoughts,

of doing the deed myself-

something I've always said, I'd never do.

And yet-it holds an evil allure of make-believe peace.



Plans actually form in my mind-

the, 'when, where and how'-

though the 'how' would be too easy,

considering the amount of drugs at my disposal.



I imagine the grief of those I'd leave-

see the faces of my husband, my children,

my grandchild and the one in the making, I've yet to meet,

and I can't help but think, they'd all be better off, without me.



I'm a cumbersome burdon, who becomes more-so,

a burdon, with each passing and life-draining day.

I'm a financial burdon, who drains our already-thinned pockets,

with medical bills and pills that don't help anyways.



I'm an emotional burdon, who's cries go unheard,

by ears that are either deaf to the plight of others,

or are just too tired of hearing about the plights of me,

or...really...they just don't care one way or the other.



I'm apt to believe much more, the latter-

for their actions...or should I say, 'non-actions'

speak louder than any comforting voice could.

I hear clearly, the most, what they don't say...or do.



So, I'm led back to the thoughts once again.

The wicked thoughts of 'doing myself in',

and finally ending, not only the unrelenting physical pains,

but even more-so, the agonizing, heart-breaking, emotional ones.