Idk

Y'all i didn't write this

This was written by one of my friends

@Lestalestrange

Thank you! I really felt that—it’s not just rhyming words; I can see its implications in life.

I also wrote a continuation—I hope you’ll enjoy it!

@Lestalestrange

Days blend together, yet the weight remains,

A constant grief that refuses to wane.

I try to move on, but denial's strong grasp holds tight,

A desperate longing for what could never be right.

Morning light brings no solace, only pain,

A reality I'd rather not face, yet must sustain.

No one to share our memories, our laughter, our tears,

I'm left scraping the bottom, reliving all my fears.

*continuation*

I replay our moments, searching for clues,

A way to rewrite what could never be true.

But time won't barter, it won't undo,

It offers no answers, just pushes me through.

Yet in the silence, a voice faintly calls,

A whisper through shadows where light softly falls.

It speaks of tomorrows still waiting to rise,

A promise of dawn that softens goodbyes.

Each step I take feels both wrong and right,

A fragile pull between darkness and flight.

To move is to grieve, but to stay is to fade,

The delicate burden of choices I’ve made.

It tells of a choice to rebuild or remain,

To shape the future, or dwell in the pain.

This weight I bear, though cruel and unfair,

Becomes a bridge to what’s waiting out there.

For pain may linger, but it cannot confine,

The will to rise, rebuild, and thrive.

Is this poem an illusion, a crafted deceit,

To offer false hope where despair softly sleeps?

For why does it feel like this dream isn’t mine,

A maze with no ending, no path to define?

But all thoughts are illusions, fleeting and unsure,

Perspectives of reality, different for each, obscure.

Yet within these illusions, a power resides,

To shape what we see, to shift the tides.

Positive thoughts may not rewrite the stars,

But they draw new maps, revealing who we are.

They pave unseen paths, create doors to unlock,

Turning burdens to bridges, unfreezing the clock.

So are these thoughts illusion, a conjurer’s deceit,

A soft-spoken fraud where despair finds retreat?

Perhaps they are—but if they keep me alive,

I’ll embrace their whispers, and choose to survive.