Travellers
I keep hurting myself
day by day,
a quiet ache
with no visible wound.
Perhaps I need a break.
I am exhausted,
overwhelmed
by something I cannot name.
Is this a sign to stop?
Or an obstacle
before something greater?
I do not know.
They say the world is harsh
on the less fortunate.
Am I meeting it now,
face to face?
I do not know.
If we are travellers,
how many miles are left for me?
This road feels endless,
all rocks and thorns,
no roses in sight.
Will I reach the peak?
I do not know.
They say positivity attracts warmth,
yet I have stood in the sun
and still felt cold.
I keep living for a tomorrow
that has no date,
telling myself it will get better
as if repetition makes it true.
I talk more
to mask the silence,
silence that eats me daily
like a termite feeding on furniture.
I smile
to hide the quiet flood
behind my eyes.
I might break
any time soon,
but I must remain standing.
The storms grow shakier,
the winds stronger.
I ask the sky,
is this finally it?
I don’t know.
Perhaps I am lying to myself again,
whispering the same fragile promise,
like a prayer I barely believe;
Tomorrow will be better.
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