Tuesday, May 3, 2011


The person that has never been, or will,
the one I was not allowed to shed tears over,
a being of mystery, motives unfathomable,
the one that is there, but never was.

The one who I wanted and needed,
but could not find around,
who led me to probably,
seek it elsewhere.

And you bring around this new being,
a silent, brutal replacement of what never was,
what I had learnt to live without,
and I never get the chance to protest.

If all people are equal
and all emotions worth expressing,
why do mine get so little notice?
I wonder.

I cry to myself at night,
I type furiously;
For what I wrote before,
I had to flush down the toilet.

You are full of your pain,
you have your source of solace;
I have all that you didn’t,
how ungrateful; to complain.

And so I compress it all in,
deep down where you can’t see,
unvoiced words, unexpressed emotions,
devoid of validation.

And no I can’t tell,
I can’t reach out to a shoulder,
and wet it with my warm tears,
unknown is as unknown does.

A poem born out of depression. Written on Thursday, November 25, 2010.

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