They flinch when I ask things they don't dare,
They raise their voices when I don't agree.
I was there, but I wasn't there for them,
Maybe I shouldn't have been there at all.
"Is there really any value to this thing we call living?"
And they'd all look at me, horrified.
Some gave a religious answer,
Others kept quiet. Nobody really answered.
Everyone answered the same way,
Like they'd rehearsed it somewhere I could never be.
I tried to speak, but everyone else
made sure my mouth was sewn shut.
I tried to act, but a puppeteer
controlled my movements.
I tried to sing, but my voice
was being tuned, it didn't match anyone.
To be human was to be anything else,
To feel what others felt, just not yourself.
It was easy to be there for others,
But it was hard for others to be there for you.
Being human meant giving your soul,
And getting ashes in return, lumps of coal.
Dancing in the stars, waiting to collapse.
Singing to the birds, watching them leave.
Talking to the plants, watching them die.
Explaining to my therapist, she's confused.
Because for I am not like anyone else,
I'm me, and whether or not that's humanity,
or maybe just the way I'm wired, I won't know.
Dec 31, 2025
Dec 31, 2025 at 7:29 AM UTC
They flinch when I ask things they don't dare,
They raise their voices when I don't agree.
I was there, but I wasn't there for them,
Maybe I shouldn't have been there at all.
"Is there really any value to this thing we call living?"
And they'd all look at me, horrified.
Some gave a religious answer,
Others kept quiet. Nobody really answered.
Everyone answered the same way,
Like they'd rehearsed it somewhere I could never be.
I tried to speak, but everyone else
made sure my mouth was sewn shut.
I tried to act, but a puppeteer
controlled my movements.
I tried to sing, but my voice
was being tuned, it didn't match anyone.
To be human was to be anything else,
To feel what others felt, just not yourself.
It was easy to be there for others,
But it was hard for others to be there for you.
Being human meant giving your soul,
And getting ashes in return, lumps of coal.
Dancing in the stars, waiting to collapse.
Singing to the birds, watching them leave.
Talking to the plants, watching them die.
Explaining to my therapist, she's confused.
Because for I am not like anyone else,
I'm me, and whether or not that's humanity,
or maybe just the way I'm wired, I won't know.
I mainly wanted to focus on a rather, "mature" feeling. Or at least a feeling I don't see poets talking about often. The feeling of being "too human", or not "human" enough. Because really, what does being human mean? Is it purely just being able to feel? Is it being able to question the existence of life itself? Or is it something even more abstract?
