Am I an absent existence?
Longing to be heard, yearning to be called for.
No, it's not true-- I am present, I am here.
I can see the mist, hear the drone,
Taste the bitter truth, feel its relentless sting.
I am as I am, striving in place for a place.
They see me,
They see through me.
What do they know?
Their silent condescending glares speak volumes,
Their large, unbridled mouths even more,
But from me their ears are forever deaf.
I, myself, have yet to utter a word.
What do they know?
What could they know?
I am barricaded off from their happy, pretentious worlds.
Is it they who purposefully sun me,
Or I who repels any chances?
This scrape on the wall knows more than most,
The projection of herself is loathed, despised,
But even if she disappeared, ceased to be present,
They wouldn't be better off; they'd have never noticed.
Sunshine peeks through murky sky,
But a gray, rotten quagmire overtakes this absent existence,
And slowly,
Slowly
Suffocates me.
No comments:
Post a Comment