They move among the living, yet feel like fading shadows,
A faint whisper in the noise, a ghost of memories past.
Eyes avoid their gaze, words stumble on their lips,
In rooms filled with silent judgment, their heart feels perpetually wounded.
Each glance is a sharp dagger, each smile a hidden challenge,
They wear a cloak of quiet reserve to hide their pounding heart's rhythm.
Crowds become their prisons, conversations, heavy chains,
Every friendly gesture, another link that strains and pains.
Isolation beckons them, a soft and sweet siren's call,
Promising refuge from the strain of every stranger's greeting's fall.
But solitude is bitter, a double-edged embrace,
For in the quiet moments, they're haunted by the empty space.
YOU ARE READING
The Language Of Pain
PoetryIn this powerful and deeply personal collection, the poet sheds light on the complexities of mental illness through poignant and evocative poetry. With unflinching honesty and vulnerability, they explore the darkest corners of the human experience...
