When they look at me they see right pass me.
Yep, right pass me, right through the soul.
They see a ghost, a shadow.
Someone with mediocre tendencies.
or perhaps weirdness that cloats my physical body.
the mysteriousness of my personality choke them with fear and bewilderment.
only a few is able to encounter the lock door.
Yes, only a few is able to knock on the door with no ****.
Some are patient, waiting for it to open.
Others look at it with contempt and kick on it.
Some becomes frustrated and insane
Others celebrate it, being naive to the feeling of the door.
And everyday the door locks itself tightly.
17 bolts and locks
17 chains and plates
but no ****……
eventually the environment vitalize and degrades constantly.
a different environment each time
but the old door keeps on standing
waiting for it to be open……
I wrote this poem a week ago. I was very depressed.(also I'm a amateur in poetry)