At wits end I balance;

Balancing,
I tight rope walk on feet that are raw,
hold in a pulsating primal scream of release,
That might offend other’s ears;

A caregiver,
I gather the weight,
The pain,
The scars
and the “I just cant”-s in a container of compassion, composed of empathy;
My beating heart feels the pressure
To do and hold it all;
And to yet remain softened,
While the beating muscle toughens from use,
And so
At times I fall
I melt,
Like the tears from my own eyes,
I collapse into that of which I am most made
Water,
And of this substance
I may release,
Relax,
Soothe, and soak
heal a living heart,
And from this recompose.