FOR ME?
This must be the thousandth time, I have rode
home on this crowded musty bus
and this is the first time, I believe, I ever noticed
the agony of despair and the desolation
of loneliness plastered on the nameless faces,
I scarcely take notice of.
I am barely breathing among them,
living a fruitless mundane life
so very unalike the one’s they lead.
How many times have I said,
“Good Morning and have a nice evening”
without really meaning it?
I could disappear and no one
would take ever notice.
I am no longer a person.
I am a mere shadow on the wall,
a brief silhouette in the hollow of night,
an unheard whisper in the wind
I am the subject
of any Sylvia Plath poem.
I am the reason why people write
stories of despair.
I am the color of pale;
the epitome of loneliness
and the final definition
of a life tragically lost.
I am trapped inside a hollow maze,
not knowing if I want to escape.
I often wonder what my life
would be like if I lived the one I wanted.
Would I be a poet? A dancer? An artist?
An actress? All of these or none at all?
I am hopelessly drained of all emotion.
My dreams are suffocating under glass
where I have selfishly placed them.
Do not become like me,
raise your voice and scream
until you are heard,
break free from your entrapments
take a risk, and above all,
dare to dream.
Will you promise to do this for me?