The push to write #poem

The push to write,
At the dead of silence,
The world is sleeping,
Apart from *that* man,
Who's doing his all,
Just to keeping on breathing,
Not moving, just breathing,
Is all, that he can.

The tall imposition,
Of those towering buildings,
Peering, domineering,
At the insects, below.
And the sounds of the streets,
With their rumble, and sirens,
And the controlling violence,
Shot like thread, through its flow.

So I sit and I wonder,
With pen, poised there bleeding,
As the visions of trauma,
Swirl, filling my mind,
As possession takes hold,
And the visions grow deeper,
I'm fearing the reaper,
And all that he'll find.

Standing alone and exposed on the hillside,
The darkness that ebbs,
And invades all that is here,
As pain and depression,
Choke all that is worthwhile,
Until I'm unconscious,
And gripped in its fear.

Until I see purpose,
Until I see sunshine,
The one that is found,
Pushing up, from the dirt,
Then I can start,
With a day, that has meaning,
I'll have a day, with my mind, and my heart.

Until then, I'll lie here,
With faith, in this blanket,
Stone, in an ache,
Rigoured, stiff in despair,
Breathing and breathing,
And breathing and breathing,
Until, like the sunshine,
I'll rise up, soon, somewhere.