Buried alive in a tomb,
Wreaking havoc on my mother’s womb,
Stiffened by emotion and a dwindling spirit,
Screaming my lungs exhausted with no one to hear it,
Self pity and inexhaustible shame,
Dare I utter mine own name?
Alive, Alive is but a word,
Uttered in a tomb, its echoing laugh is absurd,
My perspectives have darken, my outlook bleak,
My tongue grows numb as kind words I speak,
What is this fluttering I hear?
Mine own heart stuttering with fear?
Halt! I cry, why? I ask,
Understanding of these happenstances is beyond my grasp,
For I have defaced true beauty’s form,
As a consequence, behold my forlorn,
In the depths of my aching soul,
Lies the contentment that escapes my sight to behold,
For in my state, I swear it is absent,
Drifting into depression I am hell bent,
How can I be helped when I will not help myself?
Destined for ineptitude as dust on an old wooden shelf,
My words are empty, lost is the song in my voice,
Destiny should never be a matter of choice,
For therein lies the predicament and the wholesome blame,
Destiny has made it choice and now I have no name.