Not likely

For the first time in months,
I allow myself to feel the creeping hopelessness of my current state

Anger and grief for myself while not being able to fully move

Quicksand steps in life and dreams, unable to do what must be done to climb out of the well I’ve put myself in

I’ve allowed myself to feel the pain, reborn and recycled in different faces

I want to feel seen, heard and believed, not taken slowly piece by piece

Offerings I give others freely split until I’m left bare

My defenses always there to mask my ultimate fears

I have become the ultimate skeptic, to the point of paranoia

I’ll never believe a soul truly loves me until they persist against my troubled mind

and how likely is that?

Emily C. Poésie © 2019

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