How many years have I carried loneliness
as symmetry to my loveliness
that I don’t even believe in?
But I’m so much more than my issues.
I’m a person who feels like an issue,
but what do I know of hardship?
I only know of the hardship
that physical abuse
to a child can attain, issues
that make you assign blame
to yourself or someone unlike you
who had absolute control of you.

But what am I to do with this
colossus of guilt
writhing above me, a snake
borne of my fears?
What do I do with these empty shoe boxes
thrown into the hole of my heart?
I try so hard to make it
through what should be just another day,
should be as easy as it looks
but I feel so much like a glitch
interrupting your programming,
a virus impervious to any modern therapies.

So I get this pseudo-aphasia
freezing me in place, telling me to run,
to get away from more pain and rejection.
But where am I to run
when that pain, that rejection was inside me?
Because I can’t keep fighting
the world,
I can’t keep fighting
I can’t keep trying
when I should be doing,
I should be doing.

Read more of David Bankson‘s entries:

the ugly writers the ugly writers the ugly writers the ugly writers