There are so many things to say.
Tripping on my tongue, my eloquence
Deserts me like courage on the battlefield
And the nausea fuels my hesitance.
Or maybe it's just a lack of practice.
I'm well-versed in verse, and this universe
Is no different. The rhythm's there;
So too's the rhyme, and I'm no worse.
I wear my heart upon my sleeve, but
That same garment is adorned
With a hundred others, much the same,
With bleeding colours. My heart is worn.
Worn down to fraying tendrils, my veins
Criss-crossing in secret patterns,
And nerves on fire, but still the dark
Surrounds, and I'm praying for a lantern
To send the strength that I have lost
And light the path that I must cross.