We live in a society
that cloaks itself with a facade,
that tucks away our insecurities conveniently.
Some chose the path of silence,
tormenting themselves within,
whilst others chose to live by a false identity,
feeding off others’ sorrows,
receiving the temporal empowerment
to heal the wounded parts of themselves
that most could not see,
because they became others’ enemy,
ideas of vengeance stirs in their mind behind their backs,
but only fear fill their eyes when confronted.
Even those who can see,
only treated them
like conversation pieces between their gossips.
No matter how many times she deleted the comments,
it never got deleted from her mind.
It repeats itself like a broken recorder,
except you can never smash it silent,
so she became the silence,
like a muted lamb that never bleats,
although it is in its nature.
Sites giving advices, offering hotlines,
But she never dialled,
always close but never did.
Because the doubts that drowned her,
as to if she is exaggerating her condition,
if she is merely self-pitying,
if she is over-thinking…
So she turned to pills, and sleep,
avoiding the uncertainties,
only to be woken up by them,
so very frequently.
She never realises the weight of her words,
In great desperation she needed to feel the power,
the power of seeing others yield to her in fear and pleads,
the satisfaction from seeing others,
bent to their will,
although somewhere in her she knew it was all wrong.
The typewriter calls for her,
the ambiguity of her invented identity,
having to be able to live behind a screen,
never needing to bear consequence,
of others’ manipulated fate,
or of her own consciousness.
Somewhere in her addicted soul she knew she is a coward,
But the void in her heart,
oh the void… she sighs,
there is emptiness
she needed to fill.