This Is Why I Never Write

You never write you tell me,

So here I am, with pen in hand,

Waiting to send you word of my life,

To finally end your curiosity.

 

Should I tell you about the strife I've been feeling,

Where I pretend to be happy and filled with love and laughter,

Not saying what I really am experiencing deep inside,

But instead lying to spare you from the turmoil raging every day?

 

Should I tell you of the struggles I face daily,

From homework assignments I do not understand,

To the friends who cry about failed exams and relationships,

To the death of my sanity?

 

Should I tell you about how my parents still care,

How my siblings annoy me but love me unconditionally,

To those late-night calls with God,

And how he tries to console my fragile self?

 

Should I tell you about the pride I have for my writing,

Even though it has never won me anything but mocking and contempt,

The words flow like water from a mountain spring,

Filling me with hope and new energy?

 

Should I tell you about the woman I loved,

Who said she loved me back and filled me with hope and comfort,

But lied in fear of hurting my fragile psyche,

Only to hurt me more than she could ever imagine?

 

Should I tell you about the abyss I see in my dreams,

Calling to me like a siren,

Promising me that all my problems can be ended,

If I simply fell into the darkness?

 

Should I tell you about my fruitless search for acceptance,

Drifting from place to place,

Not knowing what I was placed on this Earth for,

Nor why God allowed me to be born?

 

Should I tell you about late night visits to the church,

Where I begged God to let me go to Heaven,

But no answers every came?

 

Should I tell you about my mother,

Who hasn't seen me in two years?

 

Should I tell you anything?

 

These are the questions I am asking myself,

As the ink drips, drips, drips,

And as the sun begins to drift to its nightly slumber,

I do not know what I should tell you.

 

Under the burning blue lamp,

Words do not come easily,

But as I begin to write of my life,

I finally know what words will spill out from the tip,

I will tell you everything,

And allow you to be the judge of my mental state.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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