I have grown tired from wrestling with my emotions.
Why are they so much stronger than me?
I can’t even win an arm wrestling match.
I think I’ve grown some new veins,
I’ve become a bit more blue,
changed into something new,
or maybe I’ve turned into a cliché,
one who drinks and scrawls their troubles away,
but that notebook isn’t far away enough,
I don’t know when it got so tough.
Let go, let go, if I knew how I might,
but both my fists are clenched far too tight,
my fingers curled around repetitive notes,
the same thoughts recurring, the same words I wrote.
Instead of letting go I keep my fists clenched
so I can swing for a punch while I’m entrenched
in this fight with my feelings, because they’re never fatigued.
The match goes on long after the spectators leave,
and while the sun goes down on all past events,
I’m sparring with those whom I love to lament.