I ran across the following poem by a 'cowboy poet', Robert Service.
It was part of a notice posted to one on the on-line boards I monitor regarding the death of another one of my brethren. I did not know the man, nor did I recognize his name but after reading this, his favorite poem, we were linked by more than PCa.
Read it in it's entirety, it is reflective of me, my thoughts, my battle and how I fight this fight.
When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and.....die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow...
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.
"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know - but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,!
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.
It's easy to cry that you're beaten - and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight-
Why, that's the best game of them all!
and though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try - it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.