How is it that you can’t see that I’m not happy here?
Contorted masking deceptions bring flowing empty tear,
From misconceived perceptions.
How is it that you can’t tell that I’m so lonely here?
I try to fit and make things work but all I know is fear,
Of what in all mens’ minds lurk.
How is it that you can’t see that I’m so often tired?
Seasick from searching ocean depths to find answers required,
To accept the flooding concepts.
How is it that you can’t tell that I’m not just like you?
Somehow we think nothing alike.
You fit with all you do,
And I’m the outcast you dislike.
How is it that you can’t see that my own world is real?
Land that believes in the spirit,
Seas made of what you feel,
And whispered voices speak it.
How is it that you can’t tell that my life’s all my own.
Seeing things you will never see.
No words on the tombstone which is etched in gold and clear to me.
K. Aldaya, 5/14/05
Picture: Artist Unknown; http://www.wallpaperup.com/uploads/wallpapers/2013/02/04/34222/a998a12ca5e88cb5960adb820990ffbd.jpg