What is, truth?
Why are people obsessed to find its meaning?
For all I know, truth is a box;
Mysterious, tempting, yet rare.
Truth is what's real.
Then if it is so, claiming to be "real",
How come mine always become inconceivable?
Some I know would say I'm not me,
That I've changed, if not everything, almost all.
Believe me, step back and I'll tell you:
You never lost me.
I am deprived of this, "truth".
I am unable to voice out my pleas.
I am not privileged by my kin, the people, those surrounding me.
I am plastered to a wall that is constantly vandalized by their thoughts, their "truth":
"He's fat, he's horrible, he's helpless, he's different, I can't bare to understand him."
They say that they're my friends, that they have my back.
How would I bare to believe that if all that they see is my insecurities?
I just can't see why I am like that:
"He's intelligent, he's dependable, he can help".
I guess that there is to me.
I guess it's because I always have a smile on my face.
I guess it's because I always crack a joke.
I guess it's because, I can't cry anymore.
Unless, if they would know my truth, my secrets.
I just can't scream hard enough to say help,
I just can't see the sunshine I am supposed to see;
Everything I see is a tint of black.
I just can't say what there is to say,
That yes, I was ***** by my father when I was 8,
That yes, I am molested by my cousin, up until now,
That yes, I am ****** when they think I am not offended,
That yes, I am not as happy, as you think I am.
I can't face it all.
I can't face the hard-hitting question that they'd all ask;
"Why did you not fight back?"
To this day, I do,
Now that I have myself in my absolute lows.
Now, that I try my best to pick and hold myself together.
The only voice, the only truth, I can have, are these words I write,
Far from them, far from reality.
Until the day I collapse and feel nothing, I would be the bird in the cage, bound.