Hope y'al;l ike, this cost me sleep

 

Scream

I want to scream—but can’t

I’ve lost my voice.

I can’t speak—rather, don’t.

I’ve lost myself.

 

I wish to shout—but croak.

Feeble attempts—ignored.

I yearn to speak—free of these plaguing artifacts.

Instead—this.

 

This—hell.

This—forcing me to silence.

This—social nightmare.

This—“me.”

 

I don’t want this—never did.

I want that—what they all have, what you have.

I don’t want this—the fear of possibility.

I want that—self-comfort; comfort in self.

 

Fine

I’m fine—I swear.

These words aren’t me–well, they are.

But no—not how you think.

They want me—do I concede?

 

I care for well-being—I think?

Why-then-do-I—listen to her?

Why-then-do-I—resonate so??

Why-then-do-I—…want reenactment?

 

Emulation?

Rebellion?

Revamptment—independence?

Indifference and passion?

 

What do I hate?

 

lackIng answErs

Freedom I crave.

Freedom I have?

What do I hate?

I don’t know that!

 

Angry am I—that I am sure of.

Anger at what?

Vague accusations—presumptions on my part.

 

Oh, look at the clouds!

How very pretty!

Or are they just gloomy—angry—mourning?

I don’t know that!

 

How-can-be-sure?

That this hatred is real?

Not generic and shared—but bland nonetheless.

Am I a fraud?

Just a pretend—or emulatory clone?

 

I don’t know that,

But at least I’m not YOU!

 

*sighhhhhh*

- Lily