Strained

A prose poem

Photo by davide ragusa on Unsplash

Every month feels like it’s pulling their strings and use me up. One moment you think you’re fine but, that changes in a split second. You feel like you’re content, but the sad reality is how I can’t be this content, something drastic needs to change. The change will show, but the more you do it, the more it gets stoic- here you are switching it up again- sometimes I wished you stayed content and do the best with what you have. To not have envy in your heart about what others have and what you don’t have, not whimper and mope around. Motivation has been demanding, days where you can’t even get out of bed, the slight thought of food slipped away from your mind, this bed comforts the state that’s not you. These incubus thaw out all positive outlooks, snorting all of these thoughts I try to contaminate. Lactating all the soul that inspired you to get this far turn to blackouts, dilating every glimpse of optimism left in me. Even when I continue to try, these black holes continue to spread all over. I try to fight them off. When I get closer to winning that match, here I am defeated because of not being content. It’s harder to live, harder having the will to keep ongoing. Whatever I try, when it be the time when I feel satisfied? Being satisfied that being content temporary is okay, that timing works in mysterious ways- that even though it’s not near right now, the light will continue to shine brightly at the end of that tunnel. You will achieve your goals to celebrate. Until then, patience is the hard key to hold onto- grab onto it tightly, let it make you feel at ease. Your time is coming, sooner than you think.