There's a wall in front of me.
Too tall to climb.
No room to crawl under.
Too long to go around.
All I have is a plastic spoon.
So I chip away at the wall.
I've been chipping away for years.
The wall keeps getting thicker.
But then I realized:
I am not alone.
I am surrounded by people, each with their own spoon, just waiting for me to ask for help.
So I do.
I ask.
And they help.
I am not alone.
They were so awful to me,
And yet
They seemed to care.
They manipulated,
Twisted,
Hurt,
And destroyed me.
And yet I can't
Seem to let them go.
Even knowing
How badly they could
I'm scared.
I can't believe we're here
Again.
I can't believe this is reality
Again.
Four years
They say.
It's only four years.
But it's four years
Of a living hell for me.
They laugh
The sorrow I know
Is like no other.
It is too deep
Too raw
Too real.
And as I stand here
Within its everlasting clutches
I find little bursts of hope.
And these little burst of light
Comments
I don't know if you've ever heard of this but there's an analogy many therapists use about "spoons," or units of energy, that you start out with in a day, with each subsequent task using up a number of said spoons until your energy is fully spent. This reminded me of that, and I read it with that in mind. (I wouldn't be surprised if it was on your mind while writing!) You and your one plastic spoon against the wall, energy low, but everyone coming in with their own reserve of energy to get you where you need to go... Whether you intended to evoke the spoon theory or not, it adds amazing dimension and double-meaning to this piece!
Yeah. I’ve heard the spoon analogy quite a bit, and it was something that played a big role in how I wrote this poem.
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