Oblivion

The parallel to a poem I wrote four years ago.

He wishes someone understood,

understood the pain of living,

when everyone attempts to discover his every mistake,

but never makes the effort to accept his flaws.

He finds they'll never know,

because each poem makes no sense;

each line lacks rhythm, lacks rhyme scheme,

and each story gathers dust in a drawer, incomplete.

No one's ever willing to listen, 

so he lies alone in his bedroom all Saturday,

fabricating sunshine for the the day-dwellers,

and reserving floods for the night,

while crickets moan their melancholy

at the loneliness of the dark.

He drowns in his half empty glass,

when everyone else is soaking in the mourning sun,

oblivious that the ocean is simply a collection of his tears.

Ignorance is bliss.