Who Cares? Not I.

Catharsis Take III.


To me do you not listen?

My words do you ignore?

Cannot you hear my cries?

My cries for help and assistance

In this foggy existence

Through this emotionless labyrinth

Of reflective depression

And confuséd exhaustion.

Self-enforced seclusion,

Is satisfying in its bitter skin,

But better served with unheeded pain.

Is my tone too soft and too unclear?

I tell you, irony dear,

That I cannot be clearer.

I am breaking,

And it clouds my wits

And muffles my voice.

I don’t offer anything;

I have nothing to offer.

But no one sees,

No one cares

If there might be anything


Those who claim powers of observance

Are absorbed in the trivial turbulence,

The unshared uninspired joys,

The primitive and perpetual

Squabbles of the self.

As am I—

But I do not complain aloud.

I voice my protests deep in the heart of my soul,

And they echo,

Resound on the cold walls of my being,

And nobody can hear me as I scream.

I am ambitious—

Cursed be ambition—

And my ambition demands frequent praise,

Encouragement and active love.

Passivity is for cretins

Like me.

Show your emotions

Or be a hypocrite forever

Like me.

I am excluded

From that which I love

By those whom I love.

I am included

In that which I scorn

With those whom I despise.

I want to be noticed by compassion,

I want to be ignored by modesty.

Selfishness is clearer through the haze—

The haze of depression defines so clearly

Who cares

And who does not care.

They gaze over, bemused

As the ferocious battle rages within.

They heard no clash of swords,

No gunshots, no screams of agony

As innocent men die in the path of war.

They are not grateful to the heroes

Who saved their lives from slavery.

They never read the headlines

Which proclaim the truth, raw though it may be.

They never saw that deep inside one ‘strong and good’

There lay a vicious serpent,

Poised to strike

And crying within.

The tears fell

And the crowds were oblivious.

They were as bad as the bully,

And the hurt will ever ache.

I’m drifting away on a plank of wood

Over seas high and low,

Tempestuous and bleak

With rain and monotone.

—And I may never return.

Do I have to be blunt?

Your repetitions of greatness

Will never prevail

If so you blunder on

And on,

With that quizzical expression

On your trifling face.

Why does every word I say sound bitter

Even when I am trying so very hard to smile?

I want to be good,

I want to be an advertisement to faith;

But I can’t

Because I care not.

I’ve trained myself not to care

And I hate myself for it.

I beat myself up because I know

I don’t possess the ability

To be faithful, to trust

In He Whom I so desperately

Want to trust.

The End

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