The morning comes in heavy gray,
a weight that does not lift with light.
I grapple with the silence in my chest,
a hollow that echoes louder than sound.
The world moves in steady rhythm,
while my steps falter, drag, resist—
each breath a rope I’m climbing,
hands raw, slipping, burning.
Hope flickers like a shy candle,
sometimes guttering out,
sometimes catching against the dark,
reminding me that even small flames
can keep a soul alive.
And though the shadows linger,
and though the climb feels endless,
still I grapple, still I reach,
still I dare to imagine a sky
that waits beyond the weight.
Therapy Bits 
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