o n e: misery
When you speak to me,
I feel like you are speaking
in a foreign language and
hardly understand the rambles
that slips through your lips
as easily as the air we breathe.
Every sentence; opinion; thought
I seem to have, is interrupted,
as if I am not worth an input,
as if all that I'm good for is to listen
and my advice is taken for granted,
my words, your copyright,
all your credit,
for nothing I've ever said
should be significant,
because I'm me and
you're you,
and that's apparently
explaination
enough.
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