Kea Campbell

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86. Trying

Stumbling through the door at 1 a.m., not drunk, just sleepless's bite.
My house is clouded with fog, and I return at the latest times of night.
I long for peace, careful not to make eye contact with Death.
I cry for the coach to save me from my straits, while I rise and pine to the scant love for life that's left.

The air thickens, and tensions cut my wrists.
My days expand, and I sleep without rest.
The world weighs on my chest, with past wars documented on my flesh.
Disordered mentality is cinched around my neck, but the stool I stand on is breaded with red.

I'm not confined to the material realm, for I've got a nifty spirit by my side at all times.
I'm refined by the present, and the perpetuating renewal of my mind.
I must remind myself that living isn't always kind, but the beauty of life is my exemption of price.
I must remember I've barely scratched His plan: to lead and testify to Jesus Christ.



Wednesday 19 February 2025
27 Total read