In a world of misery
Where do you relax?
In a place of sorrow and grief
How do you sit back?

Why do people do this?
Constant ridicule and shame,
Why are human hearts so cruel,
Always finding something to blame?

Why are we all expected,
To fit into strict social norms?
Some people preach uniqueness,
But it’s all pushed out the door.

In a world of extroverts,
Where do I fit in?
In a world where everything is loud,
Do I belong hidden from them?

I know that rhymes are stupid,
I know nobody cares.
I know that I have been taught desperate lies
About humanity and the despair

I’m not doing this to please you,
I don’t want to make a point.
You’re entitled to your own thoughts,
But why, why aren’t I?

Why aren't my questions answered,
Why can't I learn when I'm young?
You always save it 'for when I'm older,'
Like it's some dumb secret.

What is there to hide?
I'll find out eventually.
Why is ignorance suddenly bliss,
When we cry out to know more?

I await the calm, the bleach
of night, that chapter

when my ribs
unbreak, crawl back

around my cageless heart. eyelids
weigh like lead in this cruel gravity--

they swell faster than tears. tears
that fail to surge me out of this flooded

shell; they close
like every marble door

that stands straight between my dreams
and I,

           and you-- I await
you, draped in downpours & monsoon

tempests; maybe, this time, our wildest
winds would fade out in their collision.

What is that playing in your head,
that clip suffering that has captured your reality,
and plays them like a broken track record.
If its' not that then it's your fantasy,
that's trying to break free and become reality.

But fear of judgment from the world,
retracts us back to this cruel shell of a mindset
that has been made known by our ancestors.
All those hopes, wild imaginations, and our fantasy,
that is being rejected by those same ancestors,
who vowed to guide us,
but now from their hands do they destroy us.

We who are present history should learn to break free,
to carve and crave our hopes, dreams, and fantasy,
that has been bottled and then turn it to passion.

love is, perhaps, the cruelest mistress.