Tar seeps into my every crevice,
Slowing down my movements,
Slowing down my thoughts,
Until only my mistakes own me,
Wading through heavy days with heavy heart,
Jet-lagged mushy brain,
Unsure when this pain will end,
And when optimism and pride can restart;

We all make mistakes,
We are all human,
Yet that feeling is so overwhelming,
Of causing hurt,
Of striking down the things we hold so precious,
Like gazing longingly at a thrown-up meal,
That was once oh so delicious,
But was destroyed,
And we fear that we can never replicate,
Never truly find another symphony,
To resonate,
Another beautifully-crafted thought,
To contemplate,
Or another poetic interlude,
To communicate,
The hatred we feel for ourselves,
The love we feel for others,
And milky, teary-eyed desolation seems to clamber,
Seems to grip whole-heartedly,
At times of attempted slumber,
Darkened thoughts bringing us once more to the edge,
Urging us to take that step,
To leap self-loathing into the murky below depths.

For sleep is the cousin of death,
And recently,
I have only died.

© Alex Frost 2013