I'm not dying.
I'm not dead.
Yet I struggle with the sisyphean task
of resuscitating myself with every breath.

I'm not breaking.
I'm not broken.
Yet I must reforge my fractured psyche
upon the hephaestian anvil that is my mind.
With the strikes of the willful hammer,
in the golden fires of my rage,
a weapon fit for Damocles unbreaks.

I'm not stopping.
I've not stopped.
Yet I must push my body and mind
through all these herculian trials
just so that I may escape this Tartarus.

I'm not losing.
I'm not lost.
Yet I see myself on freedom's deathbed
trying to resuscitate what's left of human kindness.