This is Why

I thought I'd try my hand at poetry.

I try to hide that fact that
Part of me is somewhere else,
But I always fail when
Someone asks 
Are you listening?

Obligation to listen
is a slavery in of itself.
But how can I not when
everyone's troubles
Overshadow my own?

All the interruptions when
I speak are less than desirable.
But can I ever stop them from
interjecting a story of mine
That they deem unworthy?

Don't be selfish, they say. 
I need your help, they say. 
But still I listen and think:
Do I consider them friends that
run me down with words?

While I listen I give
advice to help.
But they reject the solution;
Why do they come to me for remedy
when they refuse to accept it?

They are like vampires
Sucking up my energy greedily.
Don't be selfish.
I need your help.
Am I ignorant?

I make a pillow full
Of tears, their words echoing in 
my head. None of them are
derogatory towards me,
But why do I feel the sting?

This is why I am silent.
This is why I doodle.
This is why I am tired.
This is why I read. 
This is why I write. 

The End

3 comments about this poem Feed