I am suffocating.
Walls are warping inward,
Despite the seven exits,
two doors and five windows,
there seems no escape.
The exterior transforms into a transparent, indestructible material.
Inside silent screams of fear, failure, and guilt cloud my optimistic resilience.
Red flags burn to ash as
I white knuckle the urge to drink myself into an unconscious state
simultaneously entertaining suicidal ideation.
My family, distant from where we once stood.
Empathy for innocent children weighs heavy on my broken soul. Uncertain if it belongs to me and my siblings or my child and brothers children.
Growth has convinced me that suffering is on a sliding scale that effortlessly glides towards severe.
Holiday traditions spoil the rich, satisfy the middle-class, and torture the underprivileged.
What have we become?
Those of wealth sloth away excess while flaunting fur while children starve and sleep on a curb.
Is there any wonder why my heart and mind are disturbed?
Days of confusion have rendered me depleted of hope.
And so I dangle doing my best to cope and not run to dope.
This honest confession bellows from my gut.
It distresses me to say this anguish erodes the weakest parts of me and tests my wavering strength.
My apologies for the holiday picture I begrudgingly paint, a masterpiece, it ain’t.
My mental capacity to process these immense vibrations of pain is soon to expire.
Urging me to set my words on fire.
Gratitude for life’s necessities flood my fragile state yet drown with insecurities of inadequacy.