Bits and Pieces

Black Hole

His constant is only

"everyone hates me."

He doesn't see past himself,

doesn't see what he could be,

but feels that they are against him.

Everyone must be against him.

His sunshine is lost behind mountains of clouds,

clouds that are gray and looming,

blocking out traces of bright blue sky

that no one else has trouble seeing.

Everyone else has their personal ring of light

shed on he or she,

but despite the sun atop him,

his eyes are clouded with views

of being useless,

nothing.

His face is shrouded with pain,

sorrow,

never knowing if tomorrow he'll be alright,

if tomorrow he will be taken over with too much,

if tomorrow something in his head will whisper,

"Things might be better with death."

His bombardments are constant,

people telling him to stop

kicking himself

to the ground.

But he can't.

Every time he wants to fly

his wings retract as he lifts into the sky.

He plummets to the ground,

scrapes and bruises littering his body,

as he weakly lifts his head.

He wishes for the sun to shine upon his face,

and though it is high overhead

as people reach out to him,

he lays his head down and cries.

All that they say will never be enough.

It cannot be enough,

and he is burdened with his notion

that he is useless.

Nothing.

Always spiraling into a pit of darkness,

a black hole,

and no light can enter or escape.