Sharp little nails I sleep on at night.
Each a regret, a nightmare, a lie.
Toss and turn on this prickly bed.
No comfort when doubt lives.
I push back, I fail,
Relapse into old patterns.
Rebellion has yet to set me free.
Caged by painful repetition.
Success is a bird that soars.
Failure the chain buried in the ground.
Darkness tugs on tired eyes.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Again with the lies.
Kember's Journey 