What You Don't See

They think you are funny.
     They think you are funny because you find that saying the truth with a lilting chuckle makes it less true. Because there is no energy left for you to be wry, for you to be sardonic. All you have now is a smirk and the knowledge that, yes, they think you are funny.
      But you think they are ignorant.
      You think they are ignorant because you assume they do not know pain, that they do not know despair as profound as your own. Somewhere deep inside, you know there are others who ache within their very bones, who creak with every step, just as you do. You never see their concerned stares baring into your back. You never hear their desperate whispers to one another about whether they should tell. You conclude illogically that when they ask how you are they wish to hear that you are doing well.
       You are not doing well. They are not doing well. They may not understand, and you can not expect them too, but they too, feel pain they cannot control with anything. They too crave the romance of ending, they too find poetry in agony.
        They too, lie of glory in pain, of beauty in anguish. They too, pretend in a hundred different ways for a billion different men.
        You think they are funny.
        They think you are funny.
        And who knows? Perhaps both are correct.

Author's Note

Am I hiding too much within the piece? This was very spontaneous and I feel as if I've created it to be very unclear.