Whrandom Writings

I beat my fist
into my face
I drive it down
like a mace
To mask the real
pain that I feel
To scare the fear
away from its meal
Can no longer drink
to make me brave
Can no longer smoke
to drive the ghost
to their grave
Stuck in a desert
with the sun
putting pressure
smashing me down
In the sea of sorrows
silently smothered
till I begin to drown
Dreading the power
to make it all still
Ironic twist,
that
that resolve
would cure me of my ills
And so my struggles
continue
with no end
As I pummel my Boulder
to the bend
I lose focus and
drift into sleep
To let it roll back
into the deep
To awaken and see
that it was back in it’s place
To laugh at my fury
that it had grown a new face