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It is difficult to tell whether I suffer from
Depression or am simply bored out of my being.
I put up a sense of calm, a
Dignified quiet.
Meanwhile,
hanging breathless on the verge of being crazed
by everyone else I run into.
I tell tales of misadventures, broken dreams; is that lack
Of compassion or simply scorn to man?
I offer luminous claims, atrocities of
unhinged mind; but somehow keep banging on
Fragile dwellings with uninterested passion-
Love un gifted.
I do not have a single lovely thought, real and lucid,
Just a vacant yearning for something that
I never had; days and nights seem blurred and endless on
Unwilling ears.
But then,
I am not really eager to be heard shedding, or hold
Dry Tears--


My mind does not claim before or afterness.
I want to shout drenched in sweat,
though no one wants to hear my voice-
Inaudible. Dark Flavored.
Is this simply a death postpone deep in the marrow?

Or is it my words?