People tell me to tell them

Providence

People tell me to tell them
About the problems that I face,
The many demons that in my mind race,

But I am unsure if they will understand
If I could feel the pointlessness behind every point they make
From the people born of virgin mothers, to the ones who were burnt at stake.

Would any of them understand?
Those people who tell me to tell them
But about what should I tell them?
Which devious thoughts of mine should
I dare to share?

That I find their so called socialising like a parasite in nature,
A mutualism that sustains by feeding off each other,
Or should I tell them
That I am tired, reaching exhaustion, of the petty sarcasms,
That my ears might begin to bleed in rage,
That their exclaimations and apostrophes of “I know!”
Is infact, probably, the most stupendous act.

People tell me to tell them
But should I tell them?
That I think that what we think of each other is almost always false,
Framing and exhibiting judgements on others is not a job of ours;

It is not because we are incapable
But because we don’t know each other,
A proclamation would be either an ignorant or an innocent lie,
And I don’t see any providence in it
When we all are meant to die.

 

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