Friday, 5 May 2017

Untitled (May 4, 2017)

Never wanted
To be different
From other people.

I am.

Feeling like
I'm cursed
Or worse.

A diseased biomass
Meant to be
Put down
As a mercy.

Asking myself
Why is it
Am able to
Help other people.

And yet
Am struggling
To help myself.

To bash through
This invisible cell
That surrounds me.

As guilt
Fills my soulscape
Like a layer
Of freshly fallen snow.

A long and emotional

All parts
Of my life.

The past
And future.

As the tears
Of sadness and frustration
Roll down my face
In shame.

In wanting
To reject this "gift"
Of being hyper-empathic.

Therisa © 2017

1 comment:

Buddah Moskowitz said...

Empathy may be the single thing that makes us human. Good poem. Keep strong, my friend!

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