It feels as though I let you all down,

The grey cloud above the perfect town,

A caterpillar who won’t become a butterfly,

Silent nothings that haunt your battle cry.

Patches of frost on newly bloomed rose,

A tiny hole in your beautiful new clothes,

The ugly duck in a lake filled with swans,

Decaying rust that muddies antique bronze.

I can’t get better until I focus on my distress,

Whether it’s selfish or not I don’t want to regress,

My whole life has been spent as a carer,

Any self-care act brings on a system error.

Can I really begin to focus on my sorrow?

Will it help me uncover a new tomorrow?

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