Each day I chisel
The rough surface of this rock,
Trying to find the
Sculpture. I chip off
The words I don’t want to say,
“I don’t feel close to
You right now,” “I take
Pills to make life bearable,”
“If I could run, I
Would.” Another chip.
“I know you sense the dread in
Me, but haven’t the
Words to express it.”
“My best days are behind me.
They flew past while I
Was waiting for some
Validation that didn’t
Come. There is less of
Me each day.” I would
Rather die with these words not
Said, than hurt any
Of you. Alas am
I fated to wound you to
The core. Chip, chip, chip.