For many years I have suffered in silence with no one ever having a clue.
No mother, brother, sister, wife, girlfriend, not even elements of my crew.
Mentally unstable. An emotional wreck. My psychological health has deteriorated beyond repair. Its soil lacks the depth, strength and body to rebuild a foundation that would make me function as a common man.
But you were the only one. The only one who could see the hurt behind my happiness. The only one who could see the strength behind my struggle. The only one who could see the hurt in my eyes and hear my cry for help in my silence.
Your presence is my vulnerability’s kryptonite. Folding my fears and insecurities like Valarian steel which cuts the very lining of your core as it repels your efforts of reassurance.
I was hurting silently with a smile on my face.
Dancing to the beats as turmoil invaded my mental space.
I was hurting in silence with a smile on my face.
Seeing the pain within my smile while I left them without a trace.
I was hurting silently with a smile on my face.
Watching you watch me, as I watch the hurt spill over into your personal space.
I was hurting in silence with a smile on my face.
Mary Jane, White Lady, nor even booze, could have never taken your place.
I was furious...because you know me.
You know when I’m hurting.
You’re the only one that does.
So, I know you saw me hurting, yet you turned a blind eye.
My heart begged for your attention, while my eyes sprinkled dry cries.
I've been to therapy and counselling, but they haven't worked I guess,
Rushing the journey at the first step, instead of trusting the process.
Emotionally I’m unavailable. I’s somewhere chasing my demons as they have ostracized me, leaving me to suffer in a cruel and inhumane world. Even they are disappointed. This is beyond their influence.
As I appear somewhat sadistic, with your hurt fueling my decadence.
Jehovah's Witness
The morning unusually crept up on the Jonesville community, much to the surprise of the more perceptive residents. Tom, one such resident who realized the phenomenon, was already up prepping for his usual Saturday routine, that involved early morning meditations, just before munching down on a full morning of the English Premier League. He got himself groomed, made breakfast, found the channel, and was settling fine. The winds had pried the windows open, chilling his one room studio as if he had an industrial air conditioning unit, that also heightened the scent of grounded coffee that permeated the air. The plastic diamonds on his chandelier danced as if they were being conducted by the winds, which fixated Tom’s head in its direction, marveling at the object’s talent. Another gale of wind had swooped in before Tom decided to check on the weather outside, as he couldn’t recall the expectancy of rain. The skies were upset. They were no longer blue and quirky, but gray and engulfed in
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