Army Crawl
I write poetry in this life
one step ahead of the rain
not out of love for the words,
but because it’s the only way
to bear this unending pain.
The rain never stops.
Not really.
It might hush for a moment,
but I know better
it always finds me again.
Each drop is a weight
I’ve carried for years
grief with no grave,
experiences I never asked for,
hurt I never started... But finished.
I write
because it’s all I have.
The page doesn’t demand I be okay.
It doesn’t flinch when I accept
“I’m broken.”
It lets me bleed out truths
I can’t bear to speak this aloud.
Around me, they shine
basking in sunlight and wide-open roads.
Their laughter floats
like balloons unburdened
by the storms I know too well.
I wish I knew them
but they don't know my depth of hell.
I watch them for a moment,
envy rotting deep in my chest,
wondering how life grants them
easy skies and joyful horizons
then turn back to my crawl,
to the mud and the ache
and the relentless drip of rain.
I’m tired.
More than tired.
Worn down to the bone.
This isn’t a chapter
it’s been my life,
a storm with no ending.
Some nights,
I just cry.
Some days,
I feel the years etched deep
into every bone.
But I write.
Not to conquer,
not to rise above
just to keep breathing
inside the downpour.
Because when I stop,
the struggle drowns me.
Soul alchemy fatigue,
is it a thing?
When I stop,
the pain it roars back.
There’s no sun in sight here
only mud,
and ache,
and another weary crawl.
Yet as long as I can write,
as long as I can whisper my truth
onto a page
then this rain doesn’t win.
I may be defeated,
but I’m still here.
Growing,
for what I'm not sure.
And somehow,
that has to count for something.
If not in this life,
then maybe the next.
one step ahead of the rain
not out of love for the words,
but because it’s the only way
to bear this unending pain.
The rain never stops.
Not really.
It might hush for a moment,
but I know better
it always finds me again.
Each drop is a weight
I’ve carried for years
grief with no grave,
experiences I never asked for,
hurt I never started... But finished.
I write
because it’s all I have.
The page doesn’t demand I be okay.
It doesn’t flinch when I accept
“I’m broken.”
It lets me bleed out truths
I can’t bear to speak this aloud.
Around me, they shine
basking in sunlight and wide-open roads.
Their laughter floats
like balloons unburdened
by the storms I know too well.
I wish I knew them
but they don't know my depth of hell.
I watch them for a moment,
envy rotting deep in my chest,
wondering how life grants them
easy skies and joyful horizons
then turn back to my crawl,
to the mud and the ache
and the relentless drip of rain.
I’m tired.
More than tired.
Worn down to the bone.
This isn’t a chapter
it’s been my life,
a storm with no ending.
Some nights,
I just cry.
Some days,
I feel the years etched deep
into every bone.
But I write.
Not to conquer,
not to rise above
just to keep breathing
inside the downpour.
Because when I stop,
the struggle drowns me.
Soul alchemy fatigue,
is it a thing?
When I stop,
the pain it roars back.
There’s no sun in sight here
only mud,
and ache,
and another weary crawl.
Yet as long as I can write,
as long as I can whisper my truth
onto a page
then this rain doesn’t win.
I may be defeated,
but I’m still here.
Growing,
for what I'm not sure.
And somehow,
that has to count for something.
If not in this life,
then maybe the next.
