A Hill

A hill where many walk with heavy, weary feet,

a place in which many stay.

A lonely summit where souls begin to fray,

a silent marker where mortal debts are paid.

A hill to which some come ready to quit,

where grief is constant — a cold, endless rain.

A hill where weakness shows and is not accepted,

where many stand on ground that breaks a hundred hearts.

Silence weeps there — a mournful, hollow sound.

Even the wind asks, Are you sure?

Hands tremble with hesitation.

A hill of self-judgment and hopelessness,

where a person meets the last piece of themselves—

not in triumph,

but because nothing else remains to be found.

Where self-hatred so deep, the self turns strange, unlovable to its own eyes.

Memories cling like ghosts,

begging to be held one final time.

Yesterday decays slowly here,

echoing long after it should have stopped.

A hill where forgiveness is sought,

and the self is eaten away by regret and distorted thought.

Where people climb wanting an ending,

yet secretly listening for a sign—

a flicker, a reason to pause.

A place where the choice becomes unavoidable,

where fate is finally personal.

A quiet promise that everything will fade.

So still that silence screams,

a peace loud enough to deafen.

The absence of a single please stay

becomes the loudest sound.

Broken spirits loosen their grip here.

Sorrow runs deep — a lonely graveyard.

Tears fall without relief,

and whispered prayers return unanswered.

A hill where solace cannot be found.

Where eyes close longer than intended,

where breath is held, waiting

for something—anything—to interrupt the moment.

A hill that takes, because it cannot give.

Steep enough that descent feels simpler

than reaching out.

Where help stands nearby,

yet feels impossibly far.

A place held together by silent fighters

who could not win the war inside themselves.

Where goodbye strikes like a freight train,

yet still isn’t enough to stop the journey.

A hill where one person

can be the only reason someone remains.

Where mourning can be heard

before the loss has even occurred.

Where explanations were repeated too many times,

until language itself lost meaning.

Where fear and self-hatred cling like an illness

Where tears were not enough.

Where “I love you” reaches the ear

but no longer touches the heart.

A hill littered with the ruins of old dreams,

stinging like open wounds—

reminders of what once was

and can no longer be held.

Where solutions that saved others

failed to take root.

Where exhaustion promises relief

that never quite arrives.

Where loneliness becomes familiar,

almost gentle in comparison.

Where emotions finally surface,

unhidden, unguarded—

like the art of living reduced

to a last resort.

A hill

The last place anyone will hear their name