The Marathon

What do you do when your pulse runs a marathon?

When your body itches and aches with fear, and the only way to save yourself is to scratch Every screaming, pleading pain right to the very bone

What do you do when every tally, every trial decorates these tired walls?

When every mark just cancels each other out?

You rise, fall, and rise again; like the puppet you make yourself to be

A pawn in your own game, a martyr of the hopelessly hopeless…

What do you do when the façade becomes exactly what you’re trying to hide, as reality molds To your face; the perfect fit, a ghostly truth

What do you do when you can’t distinguish what’s real and what’s just a phase?

Does it matter?

Do you care?

What do you do when you can’t move?

When your body becomes an anchor and your heart fills with lead?

You can try and play it by everyone’s game, to live up to their expectations, their mindless Goals...but you can’t

You won’t, because you know better

Yet, still, you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t see that you are the problem

That you’re your own solution

Your savior

You live a blind life, living just to live, as the time you waste spills on the floor

You want to let it die, all the doubts, all the uncertainty, but you want to die with it

What do you do then?

They say all we have is now

But what do you do when you exhaust that last option

That final lifeline?

 

2013 Vincent Cuccolo