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 The relatable me, a shadowed form,

Draws nods of comfort in life's harsh storm.

But joy's bright flame, a hopeful, soaring thing,

Is deemed delusion, clipped of its own wing.

Who etched this law, this bitter, twisted creed,

That success, unfurled, must surely bleed?

That self-belief, a warmth within the soul,

Must meet a critic, taking utter control?

If I feel hot, a fire in the frost,

They rush to chill me, counting what I've lost.

Don't show your striving, your upward, eager climb,

To those who only deal in fault and grime.

Is pain the language that the world best knows?

Does sorrow bloom where happiness just slows?

The blues lament, the sad songs fill the air,

Negativity, a banquet beyond compare.

My blessings whispered, met with vacant stare,

But troubles aired, they gather everywhere.

Yet gossip's feast is all they truly crave,

No helping hand, no solace to be saved.

The world, they say, delights in watching fall,

So I seek solace, an answering, kinder call.

Where celebrations rise, and hearts are true,

With family, friends, the faithful, blessed few.

And mostly silent, on my knees I bend,

To God alone, my truest, purest friend.

For in that quiet space, I find release,

And cultivate my own enduring peace.