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