Burrying Pain:

Hopeful. Full of hope. Yet here i sit. Within my lair. With a mouthful of a meal called dispair. Now i am walking to the door. Knuckles white. Gripping tight the handle of my shovel. Its been quite the fight living life. I dug a grave to bury my pain. I throw dirt upon my shame. If i bury my pain will i feel joy? Will my broken tattered wings unfurl? Will you watch me fly, watch me soar. Will my poems mean anything anymore?