Just. Keep. Going.

Breathing takes effort.

What if I just stopped?

What would it be like

to die, to sleep - and perhaps to dream

of a better world, a world where

I didn't drown under waves of despair

every fucking morning?

A world in which things worked out,

where trying and putting up a fight

made a difference,

where hope wasn't just a trick of the light,

where I didn't have to spend every alternate day

wanting to cry,

burning out slow, like the fuse of a bomb,

inching closer to a meaningless end.

Today's one of the shittier days.

There are days when I want to put up a fight

and days when I simply don't give a fuck.

I'm too angry to state the obvious

to the lost bystander, who doesn't have to live like this,

who has things handed to them on a plate.

I want to quit, but there's nowhere to go -

don't want to end it, because I have good reason to think

death is just all the pain of life

hyped up to infinity, forever and forever,

so I'd rather trudge on and on and on,

pushing a rock pointlessly up a hill

until my arms give way

or

or maybe

just maybe

it turns out I was right to hope,

right to keep walking,

and I break free at last.