Myself.

It’s unimaginable that I may be slightly capable
on my own to express how I feel.

The simple, heart-wrenching thought that I can’t speak on my own
is like a never ending, constantly turning wheel.

"Carry on," we sing. But I sit in silence
while I let the words of my heart tear away at my mind.

Why we create the life we want to live through imagination,
is the same reason I still search for the words that I’ll really never find.

Rustling clouds roll all over my mind, trying to coherently formulate what I feel.
My words cry out of a newborn baby like a never-ending plea.

If I had nothing else to look forward to,
I can at least rely on putting pen to paper, and forgetting what is thought about me.