The Burden of Birth - Edited

Fruitless endeavors of creation
Breathless cadavers in syncopation;
All heaped, almost heaving
These abominations I’m growing.
Almost a breathing entity as opens an eye
All commotion flips then with a lie.
Choked and crowded is the feeling
Unrealized wheezing lost within darkened chambers
It sits and breaths for a brief moment, inhaled instantly
Held tight, hard, wielding a sight.
The creative birth of artistic wisdom
True emotion and all the light
Flops down then dead and silent
As a tiny tear slips past my nose.
So sad that the breath is but one
And the life is never really begun,
For all my emotion born creations
Only in death do they receive recognition.