Demons of the past

When I am old and past my best and friends have gone before,
Will I sit back and think upon a life that took on more
Than anyone who knew my start, could reasonably assure?

My start in life was well planned out before my birth was near,
I wouldn’t choose the start I had: it cost me very dear.
But cards are dealt and stars aligned and futures fixed; that’s clear.

I didn’t know how it would be: the struggles I would find,
The times when life took on the guise of madness of some kind,
Of drifting closer to the edge, of loosening my mind.

I fought some demons at the start but learned to live at ease,
By treating them as friends or foes and hoping they would cease
To bother me, as I grew up and searched for inner peace.

Peace from nights of waking up sweating and afraid,
Crying softly in my bed, trying to be brave,
Hoping I could conquer fears and face the future saved.

The years went by, the pain was eased in part by loving friends:
People who along the way were willing just to bend
Whichever way was right for me to help my body mend.

But there were times when even they grew tired of helping out:
When I would rage against their love and fight and scream and shout
And leave them feeling hurt and wondering what’s it all about.

“What’s it all about?” they cried “Why can’t she be at peace?”
They couldn’t understand, the struggles never cease
That even though you look okay, your mind is ill at ease.

The illness isn’t like an arm, that’s broken in a fall.
You see and hear things differently or sometimes not at all.
Your mind is like a human shoal that fishermen might trawl.

You drag yourself around your life adjusting to the pain,
Never understanding why the illness has your name
But hope lies close for those like me whose spirits never wain.

I’m hoping that the time shall pass when I no longer share
My dwindling life with demons; the fears no longer there.
But lie content and satisfied with all that I have dared.

Copyright Tessa Thomson 2019

One thought on “Demons of the past

  1. I believe a poem with three lines that all have the same rhyme is a type of tercet called a triplet. Very moving, a cry from the heart. Most unusual (I think) but I love it. You truly have a gift. Keeping writing!

    Liked by 2 people

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