Point Moot

Tongue out, eyebrows furrowed,
confusion rampant, tucked in her burrow...
Misunderstanding there, effort with,
attitude good, mind split...
Smile present, squint, too,
eyes questioning (those blues)...
Explanation forthcoming, needed quicker,
explanation missing, target thicker...
Point moot, all lost,
subject left, no cost.

The Feeling of Despair

The feeling in the stomach,
the feeling of despair,
the feeling of sickness,
the feeling that dares,
it all comes down
on a psyche split,
one that's broken
and one that's sick.
The spirit's done,
it's on the mat,
broken for good
and okay with that.
It knows the fight,
the energy it takes,
is no longer worth
the effort it fakes.
Instead its body
will remain on that mat,
lying there lifeless,
contently flat.

In Check

In check
and supressed,
feeling down
and depressed,
it's my fault,
this giant mess
brought by me,
whom I detest.

All happening,
all so quickly,
this situation
making me sickly,
getting even
more prickly
as time passes
and speech becomes thickly.

Confusion runs
rampant still
with no one to
receive the bill
I must pass
before the spill
further runs
the full mill.

One effort
last ditched,
one trailer
last hitched,
with no more
ideas pitched
there's no chance
for a last switch.