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Poem

I am a shadow on the branch of the family tree,
A lost echo in the memory of a mother who would shudder with shame,
A shapeless form trying to survive, to breathe,
Yet failing like a withered leaf falling before its time.
My father looks at me through mirrors of unforgiveness,
Like a piece of furniture silently regretted,
I know I am the child born from an unspoken dream,
The one who wished not to carve a path in this life.
My grandparents, lost in consumed hopes,
Imagine that in our blood flows a rope of despair,
And my mind whispers these things I cannot control,
For I no longer have power over them.
My thoughts are like a river that cannot find its bed,
Filling the cracks of the soul, demanding their toll without mercy,
No comfort remains, no balm for the soul,
The earth groans under my steps, for I am made of pain.
I walk, but I am not whole,
I am the silent and constant stain on the fabric of life,
Who am I, if not too much for every corner and every face?
A name no one will speak, a soul no one will touch,
A ghost that time will not replace.
Lifeless things seem more alive—
A stone, a wall, a dying tree,
They neither cry nor struggle,
Yet they appear more real than I, the lost one.
I am shame, and I wear it like an ill-fitting garment,
No matter how much I try, I bleed,
No matter how much light I try to see,
A part of me truly believes,
That this is my end,
A chapter written in the ink of an endless night.

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