The Battle Is On

I wrote this poem in August of 2000. I was three months sober.

Let me know if it means anything to you.

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Emptiness fills the room.

I alone sit quietly. Chest tight and eyes welling with tears, I sit quietly alone.

As the tears streak my face I feel the knot;

A knot of great proportion deep in the core of my gut.

Begging to be unraveled it sits, feeding the pain and egging on the sorrow.

It yearns to be released, but she will not allow it.

        She fears not, for she is always in control. She takes over in a flash and tucks the sadness back into the knot. She knows only how to protect; to fight back, to lash out.

She knows not herself how to feel, but how to avoid it.

She is stronger, believes she is wiser, and is stubborn as hell.

She has a friend that likes to cry and how she does beat her.

 “The Crier”, the weak one. How sad she has been and for how very long. The knot belongs to her.

She tries to untie it, to relieve some of the pain tangled up inside, but

“The Protector” is always in her way; unable to step aside.

The battle is on.

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