so if you say it is, who am i to say it’s not.
I do not know how to put pen to paper, or voice my thoughts.
they make as much sense to me as they do to you.
so, you see, your words they prick me with its callousness,
and now, as always, i sit and smile and nod, at your ignorance.
you assume, and you assume, and you assume,
that i am what you think and that you most understand,
but you cannot even begin to imagine, the depths of my despair.
you do not ask, you direct. and you have assigned me a blame most unfair.
inwardly my heart aches and cringes,
but you see my silent form, look to you,
as though dumb and mute.
and you say, ‘this attitude is fucked up!’
and you point all your fingers, and you pat me on the back.
and you say…. you are only concerned.
but, by no slip of the tongue, you say ‘buck up!’
then you dictate all my hard work to be worthless;
though you know naught of the lengths that i have gone to,
and the hells i have traversed, to save this minute dignity….
only so that i may bear to live.
so you ask, for my respect, that i should know,
what perils i subject to your accountability.
but dignified is not the man who asks, but who gives,
and in return receives.
so i do not know, what words can absolve me of my alleged crimes.
even the vilest murderers have a prosecution.
i know… i know.
my silence will be my undoing, but
that i must be, if my turbulent soul is to have reprieve.