I am - yet what I am, none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost
I am the self-consumer of my woes -
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live - like vaporous toast
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
Even the dearest that I love the best
Are strange - nay, rather, stranger than the rest
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below, above, the vaulted sky
This poem is especially dedicated toward those whoever reading this and has been feeling almost fully-melancholic in his/her life. I know you've suffered. I know, sometimes your hatred to the World and all around you is unlimited. But just let me tell you, I've already awaken from the depth of Hell knowing how I'd felt this, and it just caused me more troubled and disgusted. Don't let the sorrow distress you more, days and so after.
And, hopefully, you'll change. Not into the another person, 'cause there's just no more time to become another-self, but to reconsider things and reconstruct yourself. Being yourself is something more gracefully made of stream of wise. Not then I don't mention, that:
You'll never walk alone...
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