I woke to a world that forgot to applaud,
The sky hung low, like a sigh caught in transit.
Dreams that once danced now drag their tired feet,
Every mirror mistranslates the truth of my trying.
Even coffee refuses to brew hope this morning.
I ask the light, “How much longer must I lift?”
But still, the heart insists on another beat.
***
They say endurance is a noble thing,
But they never mention how heavy it feels.
Every kindness asked of me costs a memory,
Every smile feels rehearsed beneath fatigue.
I’ve folded my courage in the drawer of someday,
Ironed it only to wear it wrinkled again.
A thousand times I’ve rebuilt from rubble’s whisper,
And yet the silence mocks the effort of return.
But still, the heart insists on another beat.
***
So I step outside and let the wind revise me,
Let its chill confess what warmth once concealed.
I plant my doubts in the soil beside the marigolds,
And watch how life, uninvited, finds its way upward.
The day doesn’t shout my name, but it listens.
And in that quiet, I learn how to begin again.
But still, the heart insists on another beat.
This bop poem by me, “Instructions on Not Giving Up,” is a meditation on persistence through exhaustion and quiet renewal. Its first stanza introduces a deep fatigue—both emotional and existential—where I feel unseen and disconnected from hope. The refrain, “But still, the heart insists on another beat,” becomes a pulse of resilience, echoing the stubborn instinct to keep living despite despair. The second stanza expands on the burden of perseverance, portraying the repetitive struggle of rebuilding oneself through invisible battles. By the third stanza, renewal begins not in triumph but in acceptance: I find quiet courage in ordinary acts—stepping outside, breathing, planting, listening. The poem concludes not with grand resolution, but with the gentle return of will—the heart’s steady insistence to continue, to believe, to begin again.
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