Cravenly holding on when both should be letting go.
It will get better.
Struggling, wishing for the scenarios of rosier times.
Hoping it gets better.
Reality churns out a present of mediocre.
It’s not getting better.
Feeling panic and sadness, a demise is imminent.
It must get better!
Fade to black…
Now, I’ll get better.
I Write Her 