Sick with the Cycle

By: someone fighting

I hate the cycle. I used to say I don’t hate anything. Ha.
I was the happiest person they’d ever met they’d tell me.
But happiness is different than joy they tell me.
Mixed messages they tell me.
They’d tell me this the first time they meet me.
It’s not the time I meet me though.
The times I meet me are unplanned and tiresome
and I hate myself when I run into myself like this.

I hate the cycle. And there is a cycle, dear old me.
No, you can’t be passionate all your whole dang life. You can’t be high all the time.
There is ups and downs. I know you can’t understand, I tell myself.
Yeah, uncontrollable happy highs come easy. And they get me flying free, uncontrollably.
Only to get shot in my wing and waddle in a puddle until I finally hop into the right one
And my wing magically heals. Who’s in control anyway?

I hate the cycle. There’s no escaping. Until the afterlife.
Until the afterlife.
A few days this time. I made it a few days without falling low.
Wowww. It’ll probably shorter next time. And the next time too,
After you get back into the air.
But then maybe you’ll have a long flight for awhile, I think to myself.
As I try to make myself care, when all I want to do is…
Oh, I can’t say that.

I hate the cycle. And circumstances fuel the cycle, but they don’t cause it.
I hate giving all of myself to what I think is good, only for the cycle to come steal it.
Also, I’m not the only one in the cycle. Not the only one on this hopeless teeter-totter.
The problem is none of us know how to fix it.
Well, actually take that back, we know. How. But how?
Just stop. We can’t stop. We can’t fix it.
I’m sick of the cycle. I’m sick from the cycle. I’m sick with the cycle.

I hate the cycle.
I hate the cycle that stops dreams. That tears apart relationships.
The cycle that isolates us. The cycle that is a roadblock to every plan.
The cycle that doesn’t care if we can’t.
The cycle that doesn’t slow down but speeds up like hell fires up.
The cycle that’s from the devil himself.
The cycle.

We try different sickles to stop the cycle. The sickles are ancient.
The cycle proved it’s evolutionary mastery over these sickles long ago.
No sickle to stop this sick cycle.

There is one power that destroyed the cycle. That power is ancient, yet it proved it’s mastery over these cycles long ago.
To even keep fighting this obliterating cycle.
We need the ancient one. What is new is becoming old to us, but it was always to the ancient one. Always known. Always old.
The cycle. There is one who can stop it.
I believe. Oh I believe.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem