Grief's Labyrinth's Anthology....

Hear my words, I haven’t figured my life out.  

My hands haven’t done the deeds each parent writes fables about.  

But for as long as I have seen what's in front of me,  

There’s melancholy in the blues, a strange harmony—  

something metaphysical breathing in its reaches.  

It's not god, it feels like home when I am alone and beseech-less.  

When my face is moistened with tears, I see it aglow.  

My knuckles feel free when they are nearly bruised so,  

My lips hold no explanation of this tranquility in sadness,  

But I know I feel like myself when I am almost drowning in such madness.

My fingers are tired of bleeding in my eyes evermore,  

I see my face as a sin that Jesus was forced to die for.  

Who would near be such a coward, forlorn?  

A golden statue of clay and honor, half-torn.  

Not one holds me honorary in their eyes.  

Maybe that is why I have no stature in life.  

I try, I do, I play the game perfectly fine.  

My hands, my legs, my thighs in front of knights align.  

But when they see my face, it's checkmate for me.  

I wish they could have seen me for my dreams,  

And not the clay body I seem to be caged in effortlessly.  

I try to believe the body I exhibit is pretty,  

Something unique in the world, even if it's gritty.  

The flowers in the sand and soul in this lifeless frame,  

I try to believe there’s one out there calling my name.  

But all I feel is this fear of ending up alone—  

All the poems written, but none about finding a home.

My mind is an abyss to all this glory bequeathed.  

Marred is the smile that was once cherished by me.  

I tried to find love, but I know I won’t ever be the one—  

The one whose hands you hold when you want to stop crying.  

The one whose eyes make you feel like there’s life flying.  

I keep running around with broken legs and knees.  

So, I talked to an online therapist, she said, “I imagine fantasies.”  

But I believe, imagination always leaves room for reality.  

Maybe that's the reason I spend hours alone in my mind,  

Believing a part of my dreams be scripted onto my autobiography.  

But there's a shaded ghost within the meadows and the trees,  

Waving at me, letting me know the ending is just merely mean.  

“You can’t feel alive.” “Life’s a crash and not a drive.”  

It’s true, one must die to know what it truly feels like to be alive.

It's a path wary for a boy like me,  

Mended by false hope and ecstasy.  

My eyes are blinded by inanimate notions of what to see.  

Handcuffed, my fingers left alone for my ink to bleed.  

I can cry, but for some reason my wretched inner child can't scream.  

The essence of sentiments thus comes naturally to me.  

My cheeks fall with all this dripping glue abhorrently.  

It's strange how they stick to my glowing face,  

Forming their essence as this unremarkable shape.  

And like the blues of this sky,  

And like the darks of my eyes,  

Even if all the sun’s light shines,  

They are still stuck there to prove the unworthiness of my life.

It's beautiful yet so sorrowful,  

As the sun's the only thing left to move alongside my soul.  

My ribs knot like knuckles within my lungs,  

Making me feel these puns may hold some truth's stunt.  

"My stomach turns upside down,  

At least for some residual fun."  

I don't blame God for my misfortune,  

But the craftsmanship of this body's tune.  

How can I believe it was made  

By the same hands that built the moon and stars' cascade?

Again, I don’t despise these spirits of divinity.  

It's this nonchalant appreciation that burdens me.  

My mind loses grip on the answers it seeks,  

Like stumbling across a quicksand road, so bleak.  

Where each minute feels like a relentless second,  

Even if I stretch time to slow my fate beckoned.  

I can't shake the instinct to give up this fight,  

Where surrender seems easier than facing the plight.  

The instinct which doesn’t know when one turns to two,  

Because it is easier to surrender than it is to lose.