Shards of a Poet

I lay here all broken,
Just damaged goods.
My soul has been splintered,
Just pieces of wood.
I call for your help,
But my cries are in vain.
I try to push on,
But find nothing but strain.
I get to my feet,
But my legs feel like lead.
If my psyche was repaired,
I'd be mentally dead.
The winds gust a current,
I press on through this storm.
I grip my chest searching,
For the heart once was warmed.
But alone here I stand,
Just self-pity remains.
And this storm bellows on,
As i fend off the rains.
When i'm dead and gone,
What will they say?
Am i just another,
Declining their aid?
When my funeral's held,
And my casket is buried...
What will remain,
Of the others i've carried?
Is love but a theory?
Is there truth in its midst?
Or are all those who follow,
Just simply gits?
I know my own feelings,
But i do not know others...
And as another door closes,
I involentarily shudder.