Canvas

I painted patterns tonight.
Only the problem is, I stencilled along the canvasses that are my arms.

I was never an artist, it was something I just wasn't too adept at. But tonight, tonight I could have rivalled Picasso, as I traced swirls and loops with a fierce determination to continue until I felt that this particular sketch was complete.

Upon completion though, no satisfaction was felt, but only a swirling empty abyss that I quickly tumbled into, dangling suspended, gripping the edge with slippery fingers as I tried my best not to lose my grip. Only I couldn't keep hold, I lost the treacherous grip and felt myself falling into nothing.

It's ironic that I have people around that care and want to help and yet I've never felt more alone. Scribbles overflowing from the knife onto this tired canvas, realising that I'm slowly losing the will to fight back and maybe it's easier to let depression win.

They say those that continue fighting their silent battles are the strongest because they refuse to give up. That those who fight back despite the silent heartache and inner pain are the bravest. Well...

what if I don't feel strong anymore...
what if I don't want to be brave anymore?