The grass may be greener on the other side,
While your grass may be yellow, coarse, and dry,
Mine was grown from the roots of privilege from the hills of possibility.
But it isn't the colour of my blades that completely define me.
My field grew lush from the broken cemetery inside,
And the seeds grew from all of the thoughts that died,
And I grew strong from the tears that fell from the sky every night.
I am lucky to not have animals digging through my soil foraging for food,
As I know that moles sometimes dig through all of us at some points.
But under these blades not a living soul resides,
and those who seek pleasure from others' pain have nothing left to find.
Yes, my grass is greener than most I realise,
But it is from the darkness beneath that I have grown to this size.
And what use is a garden of the most beautiful hue,
If it is so desolate that I have even left too.
Each blade of mine is bent and broken,
Yet I can't complain about a trampled lawn when the dirt could be barren.
Who cares if one or two blades have been uprooted,
The field still looks nice, which is all that mattered.
YOU ARE READING
Alexithymia
PoetryI can't explain, can't show, can't display. All my intentions end in dismay. I won't digress, won't try, won't even care. Human emotions are never there. I thought I was broken, was flawed, denied. Now I realize it was just in my mind. Nothing is pe...
