Is it so hard to simply tell the truth
It shouldn’t be so difficult, so strenuous.
But still to this day, I can’t find the heart within me
To share my sensitivities with another.
To reveal my honest expressions.
No this is not easy at all to say
That I simply can’t find myself to matter that much at all.
No one can comprehend the amount of energy and clout
Its grown and grown and grown to the point it wears my heart thin
To ask me the question “am I happy” takes a matter of seconds
To consider my answer takes a matter of hours
For the term “being elated” or “being joyous” takes on the impersonation of an understatement.
Once on a chilly yet beautiful night filled with stars I listened to a man speak out to a crowd,
“You are facing a glass window and on one side is happiness and on the other, you”
I ponder and ponder that statement
Staring blankly into the crowd in front of me I flew and hid beneath my hair and burrowed into my mind
Whispering into my own ear,
“Picture and imagine that window as a brick wall instead and that’s what this feels like”
When I laid my head down to sleep that night with warm arms wrapped around me
I wondered and questioned myself, what was wrong with me?
Not worthy of friendships
Not worthy of love
Not worthy of time of others
Not worthy of myself
Not even those arms wrapped around me so softly with the gentle breaths of the person who is sleeping so soundly
Years upon years has this shadow follows my every footstep
Whether the ground be rock or soil
And he has not tired himself yet and that day I surely await for.
All up to me is what I tell myself, only me
And it’s okay though for my body shouldn’t cause the worry of someone else
Nor my pestering brain.
My curiosity is what wakes me each morning
And lets me slumber each evening.
This is nothing but idiocracy!
This should be nothing! Nothing but dense thoughts that’ll disintegrate.
If only this could be called a nightmare from the past
But alas it’s still a nightmare of my present.
Which path will my tired able body tread along?
Who knows,
Not even thyself.
About the Creator
Zoe Mullen
I like to write poetry that is both sad and funny. I'm also a great comedian.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.