GRIEF Poem: The Myth of Sisyphus by Abby Tuer, by Abby Tuer

I fear I might know it,
Before my cold fingers even touch the parchment.
Long before my ink pens were the only
portal to contentment as an outlet to get through
these idyllic cycles.

even in euphoric guilt-ridden sleep,
It is your face I see
And all the unanswered questions come back to me.
I feel like a child,
Sitting on my assigned carpet tile
Hand reaching for the ceiling as if
that will help you to pick my vile smile.

You found me in the midst of
Rebuilding my humble home.
Shattered brick and
Fresh catacombs.
You taught me how to heal,
Just so you could be the one to give the finishing blow.

Shaking hands and catching breaths.
old paint water and blank canvases.
Sacred texts filled with metaphorical deaths.
Crediting your faithless name in works cited,
For research papers about a time I was so close to getting everything I wanted.

So close,
But never quite there.

My hopeless ghost
Stood on shaking bones
And walked to the mic,
The screech of the speaker,
The cringe of the viewers.
The words died like our souls did,
Lips forgot about every poem
I ever directed.

Immortal insanity,
Sentenced to a life without the living.
The worst curse is the trap of not knowing,
And being labeled as forgiving.

learning to play piano,
But always being off key.
You being the star of my scenes,
But knowing you never think of me.

This disappointment,
These cruel and time-consuming cycles,
The grudge i hold with a grip as tight as vices

Halfway to heartbreak,
But then you took the wheel,
The aftermath of the crash
Is my reality here.

the credits have been rolling for a year now
“Foolish girl” is what I lose my nomination for
But you, low-down respectable guy
Win the Oscar and don’t mention me in the speech.

Pages of scratch paper,
Filled with nonsense diction
Of the things I waste time reminiscing.
Perhaps if I wasn’t addicted to fiction-
Perhaps I wouldn’t miss him.

Struck by the curse at birth,
Searching for true loves kiss
That doesn’t exist
I’m a realist stuck in the body of a hopeless romantic.

As the professor reads my conclusion,
My aching bones begin to sway
And the hill I climb begins to look like an illusion,
I wonder if anyone will ever stay?