Every Day

Every day I try,
Every day I fail.
Every day I pry
At sealed jam-jars of fate
Till my fingers turn pale.

Every day I lie
Motionless in bed,
Circling thoughts of tasks so dry,
Inside my pillowed head.

Every day I try,
Every day I fall
Into thoughts of cries
Over bitter goodbyes,
And mental shadows brawl
Over unanswered calls.

Every day my arms too weak,
To grasp or change or mold,
Every day my mind too full,
Of skeletons frigid cold.

Every day, a chain-bound strain,
Wading through rivers of lead.
With every stride, my strength wanes,
As I barely reach the beachhead.

Every day I try,
Wrestle with all the whys,
Every day the pain,
Of things I can’t attain,
Every day a fight,
Hide inner blight behind an “I’m alright”.

Every day I’m knocked to the ground,
Black-eyed and blood-stained,
Yet the gloves go on, and the hands go up,
Every day, again.

Knives

Another woman,
Another heartbreak,
Another knife,
Through my chest.

Every new knife,
that’s pushed through,
Opens up
All the older wounds.

In these wounds,
I look for answers,
But I only ever find,
Blood, and bile, and venom.

Smarter men,
Luckier, or more fortunate,
Have already found,
The joys of settling,
growing old and fat,
impenetrable blubber skins,
Impervious and puncture-proof.

I wonder why then,
I keep letting women,
Stick their knives into me.

I wonder why
I let them leave me,
Writhing on the ground.

I wonder why
I lie there,
Waiting,
For the blood to clot,
For a scab to form,
Only to leap up,
And stick my chest out,
For another knife,
Hoping it’s the last,
But knowing it’s not.

The truth is:
Between the old scabs,
And new wounds,
Is when I remember
That I am alive.