They say they care,
Yet they compare.
Even in despair,
Even when I need repair.
I don’t want to talk,
I don’t want to blame,
Even don’t want to explain,
Even don’t want to understand.
My weakness is weapon thou use,
And shocked when I say loud.
I am imperfect, a shame, a waste,
Yet thou call it care.
Confusing love with hate,
Minstrel is titled a disgust.
I do my part wise,
Yet my victories are fake.
‘Why’ is my existence,
‘What’ is my contribution.
Affection is long dead,
Everything mine is nonsense.
I did it for thy dream,
I did mine sacrifice,
Yet a stranger is better to thou,
And I am thy regret.
-
Author:
The Velvet (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 25th, 2025 01:08
- Comment from author about the poem: Not everyone is loved by their own people.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
Offline)
Comments3
What a true and sad commentary on life and people around us. 👌
Many are despised by their own people for various reasons. Some because of their betrayal, others misinterpreted, some for their vision. Nicely written
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