sadistic silence

A poem about feeling unheard, isolated

Is it a sin or a crime,
to feel the way that I do?
I do my share of venting,
but I think I listen, too
Is it so hard to understand
That I am who I am?
Why expect me to bear these sleights
When all I am is a man?
Does it take so much energy
to *only* hear me out?
Does it hurt to keep in mind
that you're not what this is about?
When I show a part of me,
it takes a chunk of my heart
This is why I fear
I won't find an ear
and flee into my art
I run into paper or ink
and I hide away in trees
I wish birds and I could talk
because in nature I feel free
I do not hate other humans,
but sometimes I refrain
from putting myself out there
because doing that is a drain
My empathy gland's run recently dry
and I don't know what to do
I feel if I said anything
You'd wonder how it benefits you
Am I just a selfish thing
who should just shut my face?
Does the fact that I rarely feel heard
make me some kind of disgrace?
Why must I be so surrounded
and yet so ironically isolated?
Are all of my actions virtue or sin
to be scored and weighted?
I try to help
I really do
and I solemnly swear I care
I just so often feel if
I looked back
I might not see anyone there
This all hurts to think of
it hurts to remember
This doesn't seem fair
It's as bad as being dismembered
Is there any use in putting this out?
Would it catch an eye but mine?
Do I make my cries only to the void
and waste my mortal time?
Where can I find an answer to these queries?
Please, somebody tell
I've not lived long, but I'm aching and weary
and I wonder if I'm in Hell

Author's Note

opinions welcome