Spite

 A Broken feeling in my soul

What is left of my role?

 Living daily in phantom fright,

Waking daily from tempestuous night.

 I wonder why I even sleep,

When darkness pierces in too deep. 

 I try to keep myself afloat,

But all I do is false devote.

 I wonder, is this truly destined?

 Or am I simply undetermined.

 What is hope if not showing

a false glimpse of knowing

that the future that I hold

will not be so cold.

 But stopping now would be conceding.

 And I refuse to lose this reading

of a fate I feel is uncontrolled.

 And so, I will toil

Until the day

In which I can spitefully say,

"I've won" 

to the face of doubt.