The Grave Dug by Grief

The anger in me has reached its peak,
a fire that rages, though I dare not speak.
Fanning these flames only brings more plight,
a searing heat that consumes the night.

I don't understand what's happening within,
a chaos that grows, a storm that spins.
An emptiness deep, like a bottomless well,
a darkness so heavy, it feels like hell.

Help, they offer, but I shrink away—
I need it, yet I don’t want it; what can they say?
Their words feel hollow, their comfort a lie,
when the battles I face are buried inside.

I seek the correction of my past sins,
a futile wish for where to begin.
For the ghosts of my choices haunt me still,
whispering reminders against my will.

These memories cut deeper than knives,
etching regrets into the rest of my life.
Every thought a shadow that darkens my days,
each action tainted by my mind’s wicked maze.

I want to break free, to silence the cries,
but instead, I dig deeper, a grave of goodbyes.
Grief becomes the shovel in my trembling hands,
carving out the space where my spirit stands.

What is this anger, but pain in disguise?
A heart that’s bleeding behind tired eyes.
I don’t know how to find my way back,
when every step forward is lost in the black.

Help, I need, but I don't want their aid—
a hand extended, yet I’m too afraid.
For what if they see the ruins inside,
the shattered pieces I’ve tried to hide?

The past is a weight that pulls me below,
a shadow that grows wherever I go.
And so I am left, alone with my grief,
digging this grave with no hope of relief.

I don’t understand how to let this go,
how to heal the wounds that only grow.
For the anger in me has built its height,
and all that remains is a long, dark night.