It’s hard to explain the thoughts I weave, The puppets around me, they make me grieve. An angel’s care? A fleeting dream, For angels dwell in fairytales’ gleam. The world deceives, its hopes are lies, If truth exists, it’s in my eyes. No one matters in this fragile space, Thinking of others leaves only disgrace. Favoritism reigns, the earth is cold, No one’s favorite, no hand to hold. No voice to listen beyond fleeting time, My truth lies in paper, ink, and rhyme. A blank sheet holds my identity whole, My peace, my essence, my wounded soul. I tire of presence, I long to stray, To vanish where silence holds sway. Where I’m not me, where I dissolve, And quiet whispers, my pain absolve. Perhaps I was never meant to be, Lost in the echoes of eternity. ---