There are always those
who cannot seem to help.
Anything.
No matter how many times they bleed for the cause,
submerge themselves in their efforts,
there are always the demons who look to the heavens:
Oh please, not you.
A weight of bricks, smear through the skull:
attaching themselves to the desperate
need to be needed,
chafing against the bonds of isolation
like a diseased man donating blood.
Surround yourself with people that give,
as they never feel desire to take;
so much that is theirs - never wanted,
until their good intentions freeze them to the brim.
They lay sidelined, ears ringing
when they realise how little they mean to people,
how no one would notice,
if they disappeared.
So now they will stand in the storms,
screaming back at the thunder just to hear the echo
of another’s anger.
They drop like raindrops from the sky -
not fearing the fall,
as long as they are not alone.
