I don't speak of myself.
I bottle it up, letting the pressure build, and
Think.
Thinking is what I do.
I overanalyze.
Think.
I dream, catching myself in fantasies
And run into problems
In my complex mind.
Isolation.
Seclusion.
I feel alone in my head.
Alone in thought.
Unimportance.
Feeling second best.
Never acknowledged.
Because no one understands the intricacy that is
Me.
I laugh, but friends always forget that
I feel, too.
I just don't show it.
I cry when no one is watching,
When I feel lonely.
There's nobody who gets me.
No best friend.
No one who knows me inside and out,
Who can tell when I'm hurt.
No one.
People vent their own, silly troubles to me.
I push my pain aside and
Think.
Thinking.
Their problems seem unimportant.
Crushes.
Drama.
And yet I sit, pain stricken and lonely.
I give them advice, and listen,
But they'll never understand.
I'm the therapist,
But when will someone care
To listen to me?
