It

I made this poem to vent

The being has always been near,
Persistent through the years.
Stabbing me in the back
Every opportunity it gets.

I’ve just about had enough
I’d like to fight back.
But every time I try,
It defends and attacks.

Through my arm I go,
Hunting for a solution.
I find the key for its disappearance
But it always comes back.

Through the writing I compensate
Through the writing I find escape.
Every second that goes by,
Makes me wanna cry.
Cry for help.

Still it mocks me.

It is still there.


It’ll never go away.


At least not for now.

Reviews

[Frederick P Samson]

What or who is the being.

[fresnikson]

That's up to you to decide :)