The storm inside
I suppose I am reckless and prone to self-destruction at times.
Something inside me rejects the success and good life I have.
For a season I accept and comply.
But the wound returns anew, time and again.
They are gone, violently taken from this life, and from those who love them.
Yet I remain, loved by many, and a rising star.
How can I accept this?
How can I be so great when I feel so small?
The great ones were taken, and I remain.
They are like statues in the foreground of my mind, stoic and unmovable.
Yet I am supposed to proceed, and shine.
The torch I carry is bright.
It burns my hands, I grip it ever more firmly.
Though I hold my head high, I bite my lip.
My face is stone, but the tears still flow.
My laugh a distraction.
Will this wind blow me away?
Oh God, hold me still.
For I have not the strength to stand.