R. M. Eichmiller | + Follow Poet |
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You

Feel nothing, 
See Nothing, 
Hear nothing, 
Sense nothing, 

That’s you, 

Feel everything,
See a lot, 
Hear majority, 
Sense more than you can imagine, 

That’s me, 

What I see, 
You don’t. 
What I feel, 
You mustn’t 
What I hear, 
Your deaf to, 
What I sense,
You haven’t the faintest clue. . . 

I am wasting my time, 
Or am I?
I’d like to know, 
Rather sooner, 
Than later. 
I could give up, 
But I won’t. 

Why?
Because I’m not
Like you, 
Fight ‘til the end. 

Never stop, 
Never mend, 
Always pretend, 
‘Tis my reality, 
Although it often seems that;
Like a nightmare, 
Of which I can run as fast and as long as I want, 
but not escape.

I could escape if I wanted to, 
But the pain is more than, 
More than that of a million blades, 
Blades that leave a labyrinth of red streaks,  
Sadistic it may seem, but the pain is the only way, 
To get sense of what is reality,
And not a dream,

I have a soft side, 
Buried somewhere inside, 
Open your eyes, 
See where I bleed, 
It’s there, 
Always, 

Never waning, 
Always growing, 
Growing wider, 
Growing stronger, 
Growing longer, 
Growing tougher to control, 

I ask not much, 
Your love, 
Your affection, 
Your desire, 

In the end, 
It is I, 
It is I that is selling you short, 

All I have to say is, 
I’m sorry, 
But why bother, 
You don’t care, 
You don’t;
Never care, 
Never Feel, 
Never See, 
Never Hear, 
Never Sense, 

And for that, 
I am truly sorry, 
Though it be not my fault, 
Only the fault of your past.

Copyright © R. M. Eichmiller | Year Posted 2013

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