The Obstacles Thrown Up By His Demons
Hills to be climbed
He trembles in silence, not a murmur of sound,
He loses sleep in the night, no peace to be found,
He questions his decisions, doubt shouldered high,
Surrendering to the fear, breathing under a sigh.
**
He struggles with his thoughts, his emotions a mess,
He can’t find any answers, his body crumbling in stress,
A diversion is attempted, but his stubborn mind resists,
As the barrage of thoughts pummel, his voice insists.
**
His chest feels hollow, although swamped in pain,
His heart beats restlessly, pounding out he’s insane,
Butterflies launched in the pit of his stomach; intense,
More like fiery dragons, let’s skip the pretence.
**
He swallows his anguish, never uttering a word,
Remembering his last attempt, which nobody heard,
Fear rides him hard, keeping his muscles tight and tense,
And the obstacles in his thoughts, make absolutely no sense.
**
Deep within he battles with that which he once knew,
Those days when he found it easy, his dragons slew,
But with age comes wisdom, the knowledge he is at times weak,
Especially as there’s more years behind now, he’s passed his peak.
**
Hesitation becomes the norm, questioning his ability,
With each trip down memory lane, he faces humility,
But then he stares down his terrors, rising to stand tall,
Determined to win every battle after every mishap and fall.
**
He knows he can do this, he has the inner strength,
He wards his heart, his mind, to keep the doubt at arm’s length,
His future is not dead, he still has some living to do,
It’s his demons that attack, but his confidence stems through.
**
His stubbornness will be his saving grace,
For his mind is made up, he will save face,
One day he’ll look back and laugh at life’s blocks,
Remembering every key he dug up to open the locks.
**
He’ll be wiser, stronger, less fearful from it all,
And he’ll have the greatest of memories in which to recall,
Obstacles are growth steps, yes he may stumble,
But it’s not within his nature to give in and crumble.
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Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (3)
This was extremely powerful and I'm rooting for him! Loved your poem!
I liked it and enjoyed !
Sounds like a rough road, but he'll make it. Well done, my friend.