Comfort

I think many time I act like the "you" in this poem...

You wind yourself up in the morning
You wind yourself up through the day
You let out a laugh or two at supper
Push the bad thoughts away

But at night its a different story
You're alone and there's no one to see
You're dying for something, anything,
so you sigh and let yourself bleed.

Yet though the blood runs out and scars regrow
The disease still festers within
It's still pining, still wanting, still hungering
Alone you can never win.

Maybe a touch, just a meager touch
could fix that open wound
But in the morning the winding commences
and it's stapled shut by noon

You're a martyr, you think, struggling through
taking the burden on your own
But Atlas was not a man of acclaim,
just an agonized figure of stone.

So go, wind yourself up in the morning
And wind yourself up through the day
Soon you'll wind yourself to oblivion
And there in the darkness you'll stay.

Author's Note

Tell me what you think!