2d
I will draw
But there are no colours left to see.
I try to draw
But what is there for me?
I do not walk,
Yet still, I talk.
I try to speak,
But who will hear me when I’m weak?
I cry sometimes
But my face stays dry.
Tears fall inside my eyes,
But who replies?
I try to play,
But I’ve grown too tall
The toys I knew are far too small.
I play with walls
That never play at all.
I live,
But do I live a life?
I craft a lie
But who deserves my lie?
But there are no colours left to see.
I try to draw
But what is there for me?
I do not walk,
Yet still, I talk.
I try to speak,
But who will hear me when I’m weak?
I cry sometimes
But my face stays dry.
Tears fall inside my eyes,
But who replies?
I try to play,
But I’ve grown too tall
The toys I knew are far too small.
I play with walls
That never play at all.
I live,
But do I live a life?
I craft a lie
But who deserves my lie?
This poignant piece speaks in the soft, echoing voice of a soul caught between childhood and maturity—a liminal space where joy has faded and expression feels futile. The imagery of colourless drawing, voiceless speech, and invisible tears paints a picture of emotional isolation, while the shrinking toys and silent walls mark the loss of innocence. The repetition of effort—"I try to..."—against a backdrop of futility conveys a powerful struggle for meaning and connection. This is not just a poem; it is a quiet scream for recognition, asking: "Does anyone see me? Hear me? Understand me?" The final lines linger like a whisper—torn between truth and the burden of pretending.
