The Struggle

When it happened

It was as if my heart 

were ripped from my chest 

All of my existence

Lay torn and tattered

Nothing happened 

Which did not exacerbate

The pain my life had become

The effort required just to breath

Was immeasurable beyond my ability

The combination of your words

Both razor sharp and hammer blunt

Creating lacerations and contusions 

Everything bleeding or broken

I realize, now, looking back

I’m pretty sure something died 

Every remembrance 

Of the days, the events

Especially the rage of the words 

Would bring afresh undeniable agony

How could this rage exist

What hurt or hatred created this

How could such vitriol and force

Build unknown or unnoticed 

Daily, I wrestled with questions

What I did or didn’t do

What I could or couldn’t have done

Would anything have made a difference 

Was this just an inevitable conclusion 

Were we doomed from the beginning

How can I find the tattered pieces

What will bind my broken heart

How do I get from this place of misery

What steps do I force myself to take

Upon which path must I stumble

Where will I find strength and saving grace

How do I find my way from chaos to peace

How will I get to the eventual day

The day the memories come

Unaccompanied by the pain

The struggle

No assurance 

No plotted course

No completion date

No planned celebration 

Just today’s struggle

Until the mercy of fleeting sleep

A brief respite

Tomorrow 

The struggle continues 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 18, 2020