TRIBULATIONS

Sitting here, bereft of hope.
I ask the wall: How did I become
a caricature of myself again?
​I realize now: if Love were labeled Poison,
I’d still raise the glass and drink it dry.
​Now, I’ve hit the cul-de-sac.
No road left to run, nowhere to go.
I am haunted, taunted by the ghouls
of moments we once called "Our Own."
​I bury the ache inside this poetry,
praying the rhythm might set me free
but for now, I’ll keep the pearl of my heart
locked in a shell.
Too afraid to let it go.
Too afraid to let it show.