The Aspiring Archivist

There's a pit in my chest that's growing and growing.

There's no sign anytime of stopping or slowing.

I hold it shut tight to keep it from showing.

If there'll be a light, there's no way of knowing.

I watch as my peers, family and friends.

Are consumed by this hole that seems not to end.

Some make it out, and then start to mend.

Others get worse, and others it bends.

They "commit," we say, like they had to choose.

Like it was their fault that we all had to lose.

But make no mistake, this phrase is a ruse.

When it comes to disease like that pit, we can't choose.

I had my first of those thoughts yesterday.

I don't see a sign of them going away.

There's something to do, or to write, or to say.

But fear and anxiety make me just stay.

It doesn't scare me like I thought it would do.

It's worrying, painful, sorrowful, true.

But I can't comprehend what it tends to come to.

I imagine I won't until I see it through.

We fight, and we pray, and we reach, and we cry.

For those people whose pits have led them to die.

To help, there's people who'd certainly try.

And yet, the pit's hidden for those such as I.

We're all in a balance, me and you, you and me.

We each try to hold each one up straight and plea.

And we must persist, until each of them see

That they needn't end themselves to be set free.

Remind of love, remind them we care.

If you can, ask them what feelings are there.

It isn't easy, but I urge you to dare.

This shouldn't be any one person's to bear.