To my heart I write these words,
Spare me from my sickness,
Unchain me from my shackles.
I walk only because I must,
Not yet for myself.
There are good days,
There are bad.
It's sad to see myself in such a state,
When my efforts reap little reward.
Today, once again, I find myself asking why,
Why?
Who knows.
I do my best to restrain myself from my own fires,
And still they burn,
But not as the flames in your candle, no.
They burn with a searing, slow, and silent heat.
My stomach churns at the thought of this lasting forever.
Reprieve me of my prisonous mind.
I would love to love myself, and yet I try,
And yet I falter.
Why do I hold myself to such perfectious standard?
I bear the standard of the anxious and depressed, meanwhile no one knows how to listen for the silent cries that even I speak unawares.
I tear my own heart asunder, but why?
The silent disease with no cure.
The infection that cannot be understood due to its silence.
So how are we to solve this puzzle?
Where none of the pieces fit?
Solve the riddle unspoken.
~Robert van Lingen
