Every thought is a battle,
Every breath is a war,
And I honestly don't think,
I'm winning anymore.
Every thought brings panic,
Every breath I feel defeat,
And now my only desire is,
To find a way to retreat.
I can't fight this feeling,
It's become an endless chore,
And the truth of the matter is,
I can't fight it anymore.
It's weakened me severely,
I no longer want to try,
The only thing I can do now is,
Try my hardest not to cry.
YOU ARE READING
Journal Of The Fallen
PoetryThis is a journal of poetry I've written over the years