(An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète)
Temper, temper, dear child,
don’t let your feelings simmer at the surface.
Tell all, or tell none
about the battles of the mind lost or won.
Speak of what you’ve become
and the broken being within.
Repression is regression in her purest form
when touted by the chantings of sin.
You struggle within to find clarity
and precision of purpose,
to fight these feelings that bubble at the surface
and hollow the dreams little more than shallow.
Battles of the mind leave barren souls
bereft of direction or destination,
that dutifully struggle in their desperation
to find the premises of their promised land.
Destiny is a fickle damsel,
drowning the sorrows of the damaged,
but dutifully favouring the fortunate
whose fortune fails to suffice.
Herein lies both the hopeful and deceitful
who have neither health nor hope,
yet all yearn to be more deserving
and in disappointment, are rewarded with nothing.