This Is Mine: Written Instead Of Screamed

Once, there was a hero, small but fierce, Who carried their burdens like a knight bears a lance— Their armor dented, their heart unraveled, But their eyes held the fire of a thousand battles. By night, they danced beneath the pale moon’s glow, Alone on the court, where shadows only dared to follow. Each shot was a prayer to a starlit sky, Each dribble a heartbeat echoing, "Why?" A dog trotted close, their one steadfast squire, Through fields of doubt and woods of ire. The world called them strange, too sharp to hold, A tempest of sorrow, both young and old. The hero fought monsters with names unseen— Depression, despair, and the ghosts in between. Yet every sword stroke, every shield they raised, Fell to ash when the winds of fate betrayed. The kingdom they sought was connection, was love, But the gates stayed locked, and the stars above Watched in silence, like a distant crowd, Cheering or judging, their faces a shroud. So one final night, beneath a moonless dome, The hero laid down their blade of stone. They’d grown too weary to swing, to defend, Too tired to chase dreams that would not bend. The villains crept forward—doubt, despair— They wore no masks, just the cold night air. The hero knelt, whispered, "I concede," And gave them their heart, letting it bleed. But as the flag of surrender rose, A quiet beauty in the ending glowed. For in that moment, the hero became A story, a legend, a whispered name. And though the villains claimed their prize, The hero's spirit lit the skies. Not in triumph, not in glee, But in the bittersweet truth of tragedy. For even as the tale turned grim, The hero’s light refused to dim. And in the silence where their struggle ceased, They found the closest thing to peace.