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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2148287
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Emotional · #2148287
The first poem I wrote in eighteen months
Every day is pressing.
Every day is something new and something more and something else,
something that is pressing
down
on my shoulders, lungs, heart,
mind
time,
pressing. It never ends. It never can, it never will, even when I'm dead,
because then it's just pressing on someone else,
even in my sleep, I wake up before I've truly begun,
terrified that I've forgotten something someone somewhere that's pressing.
Sometimes it feels like a drudge,
pulling myself on broken hands and wrists through waist high pools of shit
just to get to the other side,
sometimes it feels like skating down a hill,
just barely hanging on, certain that I'll crash at some point,
unsure of how or why I managed to survive.
And in the end,
unsure why I'm glad that I did.
Unsure who I should thank that I haven't been crushed yet
because I would respect no god or goddess that would give this kind of
Pressing
to an innocent.
Like I was once.
Like we all are were will be.
It's not enough to break me,
the Pressing,
though it has been before.
I'm stronger now.
I sleep longer now,
but I'm not sure how
I'm in this better place, found this better stance to resist
the pressing.


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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2148287