So this is my fate... скачать в хорошем качестве

So this is my fate...

The Unraveling of a Light‑less Path I. A dark poem of this is my fate— no compass to steer, no sunrise to chart, the world a hollow room of echoing sighs. My thoughts of death, a slow‑creeping tide, slide beneath the skin, whisper “let go.” II. There’s only one road that stretches forward, a cracked and endless ribbon of asphalt, each mile a weight pressed into my chest. Life is getting harder; the sky a bruised violet, the wind a cold hand that pulls at my collar. III. Support is a phantom, a name written in sand— my mother, once a lighthouse, now a shuttered door, her voice swallowed by the static of my silence. Even she, who once cradled my first breath, refused to hold me when the night grew too deep. IV. And yet I still hold on to her— not the flesh, but the memory of her lullaby, the way she sang "you are enough," a phrase that now feels like a cracked record, spinning in a room where the lights never turn on. V. All I wanted was to be left— to vanish like smoke from a dying fire, to become the blank page that never reads. This is my faith, a bitter incense, burning in a chapel built of ignorance. VI. And so I sit, a child of the void, naïve in the way the world teaches us to hope, yet not better, not wiser, just more hollow. I do not choose bitterness; I choose kindness, a thin veneer pressed upon broken glass. VII. Forgiveness—my last‑ditch anchor— I cast it toward the shadows that chase me, to the mother who turned away, the self that screams, the world that refuses to see my face. It is a fragile prayer, a tremor in the dark: “May I be kinder to the one who cannot answer, May I forgive the silence that has become my echo, May the cruel wind lift me, not crush me.” VIII. But kindness is a bitter pill, its taste metallic on a tongue that has known only ash. Every time I swallow, the bitterness lingers— a reminder that the path ahead is a jagged line, drawn with the ink of my own despair. IX. I bite at my own reasons—to be bitter, to be broken— yet the act of biting draws blood, and blood sings. It sings of a life that refuses surrender, of a pulse that still drums beneath the ribs, of a heart that clings to the absurd hope of dawn. X. So I walk, step after step, on that road of cracked asphalt, each footfall a drumbeat in the quiet night. The darkness presses, but I have learned to carry a lantern— not of fire, but of words, of verses, of the poem that lives inside: “I am not the sum of my shadows, I am the ink that stains the page, I am the echo that refuses to fade.” XI. The world may never give me a hand, and the mother I once knew may never return, but within the hollow chambers of my chest, a stubborn seed sprouts—tiny, rebellious, green. It is the seed of a story that refuses to end. XII. And in that stubbornness, I find a strange kind of grace: the grace of a soul that, even when it walks through ash, still pauses to write a line, to breathe a verse, to whisper that this darkness is not the end, but a chapter— one that will end only when I finally turn the page. XIII. So I keep moving, forward, eyes fixed on the thin line of light that flickers ahead, not because I think it will cure my wounds, but because the act of moving—of choosing stillness over the abyss— is, in its own grim way, an act of rebellion, of love, of forgiveness. XIV. And if the night ever swallows me whole, let it know— I left a poem in the cracks, a whispered promise: “Even in the deepest dark, a voice can be heard, And even the most broken heart can learn to beat again.” The road does not end; it merely bends, and I— the poet, the broken, the hopeful—continue to write, one breath, one step, one dark stanza at a time.