Angele Toomey Poetry

The following poem is not about life on the harbour, or twee observations about fast food! Trigger warning for depression.

The fight
It exists in the space between 
my heart and the next 
breath, that sunken
feeling of 
being
at the 
bottom of an ocean swell,
dwarfed by the enormity
of the task
at hand,
clinging
to 
a
hope
a sunken
anchor when I
have forgotten the tide and
the sun, but will not let go
in case I miss my only
chance of rescue.
But even on the uplift I am
bound to the knowledge that
the reprieve is barely temporary
and the heaviness will return
on the exhale. Even 
when eyes
grow 
heavy
I fight 
for 
the 
next.