Dearly said,
dearly at times you're unheard
Only listening to the voices in your head

The irony of life is always so,
feelings of no worth in the world, even after
you die;— you're no worth dead to them, at all

The irony of life is so,
you feel like a failure everyday, even after
you die;—they'd say you failed at life when you chose to go

You don't need a shoulder to cry on,
or someone to give one to reply on
But the shoulders of encouragement to carry on;
especially with the weight of the world on your shoulders
You're longing to conquer mountains, but there's just
this dark hill made of the night's boulders

What's your pick, choosing which side to
fall off of your peak. Which stroke to use,
when you're swimming in thoughts so deep
As you're written in invisible ink,
invincible to your own brink; at an edge close to overthink

...truly who is sadder,
the pen, poem or their poet?

Oh the kind regards, in regards
to how an audience applauds isn't a genuine hand to love

...they've read your poem,
but won't understand.

They don't know enough, even as you're boldly
showing; they'll only see as another random poem