There’s a kind of beauty in grief we don’t name,
Maybe because, when it hits, it never comes tame.
To grieve someone means we loved them deep -
And losing them carves a wound that doesn’t sleep.
It’s almost beautiful, this aching we bear,
But it hurts like hell - more than feels fair.
It’s like being locked inside a cell,
With memories and echoes, a private hell.
Some days, it’s like swallowing glass,
Especially when you watched them slowly pass.
My grief has a name: it’s cancer -
It came like a thief, with no clear answer.
It stole my dad, the one I loved most,
Now I live in an empty house-with a lonely ghost.
