In the depths of despair, where shadows reside,
Lies a poem of anguish, where hope has died.
To get the best of life, they say, be patient,
But in this bleak existence, patience grows vacant.
The beginning, a mere illusion, an empty shell,
For the end, they say, matters more, they foretell.
Yet as I trudge this desolate path alone,
The end seems distant, a cruel unknown.
Peers march ahead, their success ablaze,
While I stumble, lost in this desolate maze.
Comparison haunts my weary, burdened mind,
As I toil, unseen, in the deafening grind.
Be patient, they say, do the work and believe,
But faith dwindles, like a flickering eve.
How long must I wander, devoid of solace,
While others revel in life's sweet embrace?
Time mocks me, relentless in its ceaseless flow,
As I drown in sorrow, with nowhere to go.
The weight of existence, a burden too great,
Each step I take feels like a cruel twist of fate.
Will my turn ever come, or am I forever confined,
To this desolate realm, where dreams are maligned?
The best of life, a distant mirage, elusive and cold,
Leaving me broken, with a spirit that's sold.
So here I stand, amidst the ruins of hope,
With a heart that's shattered, clinging to a fraying rope.
For patience alone cannot heal my wounded soul,
As I grapple with a fate I can't control.
In this unpleasant verse, my voice does cry,
A symphony of despair, a melancholic lullaby.
For in the face of darkness, I find my release,
In the depths of these words, my anguish finds peace.
