I'm so tired of feeling like a refugee at home and on this planet

the bundles of hopeless souls on this planet are impotent and naïve. there's so much misery here.

it's too late for the inhabitants of this planet to notice that they are detrimental to themselves.

I'm afraid of evaporating and losing my true essence and becoming superficial and materialistic like the other sad souls I'm floating with on this planet - this life is just a hoax/mirage

"It's alright, you can cry?" She looks listlessly at her reflected shadow. There's nothing on her mind, every cloud of thought has left the gray skies of it. She feels like a desert, barren and almost lifeless. If she could cry she'd cry the oceans in to existence and drown the earth in her sorrow.
But  she cannot. That's the real tragedy. Nothing disturbs her. All she can do is stand there not quite sure how to express the endless grief that leaves her like a carcass. A decomposing body without a soul, without the breath and sentiments of life.
"You can cry." She repeats to the rippling water in the lake. Her distorted, ever moving mirror where she does not quite recognize herself in. It's impassive in its tranquility.
If she were a song she'd be a broken melody in a dusty music box. Forgotten and replaced.
You can cry, she remind herself in the middle of a night as darkness hangs upon the sky. As it clings to her like Death weighs on her shoulders and violates her through the pores of her dry skin.

Of course, she never does.

She drifts in the open abyss of a tempestuous ocean waiting for oblivion.
She drifts,
                                   she drifts,
                                                                         she drifts...

No dreams.
No sinking feeling of demise.
Waiting for the lighthouse in the distance but all is bathed in the shadows.
There's not consolation of sandy shores somewhere on the distance.

Cry, she begs herself laying on her bed ready to succumb to sleep. Closes her eyes and opens them to shadows. Obscure and never ending. The darkness is ubiquitous, the only God that has not yet forsaken her.
She walks a few miles in the flatness of the dark land but there is no point to her direction for all is desertion. So, she stands in the lightness of the black.
Sometimes, her young self hides behind her back, wearing white and glancing ahead. She looks back at herself and wonders what the she can see. Her dress and hair fluttering gently by an invisible breeze, countenance straight and strong, never looking at what should be in front. After, she walks barefoot in to the darkness and disappear as by enchantment.

You can cry.
                                    you
                                                  can
                                    cry

But, in the darkness of her mind and her room
The tears don't fall
And her affliction is obscured
darkness never seemed so profound

write a poem everyday
make it a daily habit
note whatever you've to say
the bitter or the sweet.

stare at the screen before you
or the page if it's so
there's always something new
awaiting your ink's flow.

some you've to dig not much
a few need delving deep
some may feel like feather touch
a few would make you weep.

sometimes the hand would just not move
at other would run like horse
sometimes the words would sing and groove
cry out like waves' roars.

while you write you may bleed
or kiss the blue like bird
jotting down is all you need
the inner voice that's heard.

I didn't cry. I couldn't.
I thought I was being strong. Crying isn't weakness though.
I thought I was doing it for the family. I wasn't helping nor hindering anyone.
I made myself ill out of pride. You were diseased.
Cancer victims don't suffer alone. Their loved ones suffer with them.
We don't suffer with pain, no. We suffer with the anxiety of the wish for health or relief.
Never knowing what would come. Always on tenterhooks.
That's just the way life works. Until you left.
Now you've left us. To suffer without you is almost harder.
It's not the death that's tough. It's the living that comes after.
In simple terms, there are three stages. For us watching the victims.
The first. Living a nearly normal life, nothing's wrong.
The second. Accepting the cancer and learning to live with you in pain.
The third. Living without you.
Cancer is mean. Cancer is selfish.
Cancer kills without a cause. Cancer.

isn't it odd
how we can know
human nature
well enough
to write poems
that move others
to tears
yet must hear
the words of others
to cry
alone
.

87

A darting fear—a pomp—a tear—
A waking on a morn
To find that what one waked for,
Inhales the different dawn.