This is a poem I wrote about how I have been feeling the past few days. It is unfinished and untitled:
Torment. Agonyís ugly alter identity.
It would seem that one could not exist without the other.
One may also consider that suffering may perhaps appear
to prevail most complimentary beside them.
Those who do are fools and know no such meaning of the word.
To suffer is to grasp in ones hands no more than
the mere appendage of torment.
Then what of suffering if it not torment?
Is it reasonable to assume that suffering can be expressed
as to what one can withstand?
If it be so, oneís suffering can only be described
as the point prior to the mind renouncing itís own limitations.
Suffering is merely the caged chamber that environs me.
Each bar, utterly indistinguishable from the next,
assessing me, scrutinizing me, enticing me with
forged autonomy and embodying the distinctiveness
of one who can but only underline that which torments.
The torment can only convey itself as the keys to my cell
which have been positioned just out of reach of my grasp.
I can but only gaze at them, basking in the knowledge of the
splendor they represent.
If only some passing soul would but glimpse in my direction,
bear compassion, and by doing so, would tenderly
raise these keys from its place of rest, and
surrender them beside this fortress of imparity.