How I wished I had been granted to know

How I wished I had been granted to know, The depth of the unused words, the hallucination of a happiness with purpose. My labor, how much has dissipated into the void, in the vast unknown, All the zeal, all the toil – a deaf echo, a terrified phantom, and a fasted feast. The pains take shape in a carnival of weightless gestures, And the deluge of stress caught me in a round dance of confusion, enveloping me like a mist. A shattered heart and sleepless nights, empty theaters under the celestial vault, You thought it insignificant, your eyes did not see, did not feel my struggle, a spectacle of phantasms. Like an echo, my question resonates, "Am I worthy?" And you, wielding words like black magic, become the sculptor of ambiguity, "No one is simply categorized," you tell me with jeweler's delicate speech, And yet you remain the transformative substance when other children call you to gather around the fire of life. It is a bitter paradox, this theater of shattered promises, I'm weary of being your artist and craftsman, yet receiving only the empty echo of your expectations. My fatigue is a bird's feather fallen from flight, lost in the tumult of the night. I wanted you to understand, to feel deep down and comprehend the cuts you crafted, Each scar - an odyssey, traversed with the desire to touch your presumed sanctity. How insignificant for you was any failure, any deviation from your desired line of triumph. You say "I love you," yet you remain a silver-hearted idol, An indifferent witness to my great drama unfolding on the stage of expectations. The child within me, forever trying to be sculptor in your eyes, Perhaps I once was that naive artist, but now... Now I know better, the blaze of hope has turned to ash, The palace built from dreams is now a ruin under the sun's dying rays. That arc of love from long ago, now knows better its conceptions and regrets, And my step through the fair of disappointments has become scenery for the unwritten plays.