The Subjects Don't Change, The Effects Do!
I have so many people to tell me to appreciate what i have,
And it is a privelige to have people who notice you enough to tell you that you are wrong...
I write poetry because I was told that words have the power mold themselves in whatever shape the writer's emotions are,
The subjects don't change,
The effects do!
I have seen that when you hear something frequently, a bit too often, it loses its meanings,
'I have depression!'
The first time they read it, they got worried.
Told me to be strong and that I am not alone,
They assured me that my wieghts can be carried,
By other people, I can share my dome...
'I am happy but I feel sad'
The second time, the effects milded a bit.
They said soothing words,
Told me that I could conquer the world,
After reading the same thing more the tenth time,
They responded in different words,
Words that reeked more of disappointment and irritation rather than worry,
It seemed like they were tired of using all the schemes to make me merry!
Now it is the time when words like 'Anxiety' or 'sadness' have lost their meanings in front of them,
They seldom reply,
And when they do, it is with the same punchlines...
'Count your blessings'
'You have what many ask for'
Don't be insecure'
But even though I jiggle my words to mold different sentences each time,
The message seems to be the same!
I am the cinderella with swollen feet, the shoe won't fit me anymore,
I am the snow white with a wrinkled face, the dwarves won't let me through the door!
I am the sleeping beauty; pretty, contained and composed,
But my prince is lost in the woods and can't find his way home!
I feel like I am a stirile midwife; delivering happiness to everyone!
Yes!!! I get to hold it for a little period of time but only with the feeling that 'this isn't mine either'!!!
And when life gives me blessings and happiness, they are always disguised as something disgusting,
Maybe i am not metaphoric enough to break their codes!
I feel like a drunk beggar, battered by his own decisions that he has long forgotten to call 'mistakes'!
And so when someone throws coins at him, he feels more stripped of his dignity than before!
I don't know what life hold for me anymore!
Sometimes, I wish my soul was made of soft clay,
So that I would break little pieces off of it and give them to the people around me,
I would ask them to mold it into something that would make me better,