Sunday, March 25, 2012

Art Feature: War Cry

You can rip a hole in me
                    but you can't take away my soul.
You can dig furrows in my body
                    but you can't dampen my spirit.
You can murder me from the inside
                    but you can't make me beg for my life. 
It's already my life.
"War Cry," 6 April 2011
Available on deviantArt.

This was a poem by request, and a difficult one for me because I do so much rhyming poetry these days--more because that's how it comes and feels right than anything else. But I did it.

I know I complain about my body, the pain I go through just getting out of bed some days, and I know some people do have it worse. I know I make awkward comments like "I never actually expected to live this long," and sometimes I actually mean it.

I've thought about joining the bandwagon of videos on "It gets better" but instead say what I truly feel.

Which is this:
It doesn't get better.

Things change, sometimes, and you learn how to live with them. The pain killers kick in, and you forget about it for a little while. But eventually they wear off, and you're left with a choice between bearing it or overdosing or ending it.

Sometimes I choose the first one, sometimes I choose the second. Sometimes I'm driving down a two-lane highway with traffic flying past me, and start thinking about the third one.

It doesn't get better. It gets harder. Every time you're faced with an opportunity to end it and you resist, you get stronger. Every time you get stronger, the pain seems a little further away; it's still there, just as strong as ever, but you can handle it.

You're not postponing the inevitable, you're learning how to live.

It doesn't get better. It gets worse. We can only hope and pray that we can keep getting stronger, and never let it catch up.